The Night of the Dreadful Mistake
by Andamogirl
Summary: A dark, wet, thunder-stormy story in which Artemus Gordon finds his friends the Comanche (see my story TNOT Comanche Moon) before experiencing a series of terrible and tragic events that will push him to leave James West, for some time.
1. Teaser

**THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE**

 **By Andamogirl**

Author's note: season 4. This story takes place directly after the end of "The Night of the Pistoleros". At the end of the episode, in the tag, we can see that our heroes have different hair styles and Artie suddenly has lost several pounds. The official explanation is that the episode was filmed in May of 1968 but held back to February 1969 until after Ross Martin recovered from his heart attack. The tag was filmed later after the actor lost weight from his illness.

I'm going to give you here, with my story, an unofficial explanation, in the Wild Wild West way. Let's pretend that about six months have elapsed between the end of the episode (when Artie disguised himself in General Rydell) and the tag (with Jim and Artie ready to have onion soup and stew with two lovely ladies). The Wanderer and our heroes are back to Washington, it's autumn and that explains why it's cold and raining outside, and also the menu.

References to the following episodes: "The Night of the Pistoleros"; "The Night of the Gypsy Peril"; "The Night of the Skulls" & "The Night of the Bottomless Pit."

References to my story called "The Night of the Comanche Moon", reading it first would help to understand the coming one.

References to my other stories: "The Night of the Mexican Imposture"; "The Night of the Ice Cold Death"; "The Night of the Cheyenne called White Eagle."

I was reading an article about the Sand Creek massacre (on November 29, 1864, a band of Colonel John Chivington's Colorado volunteers (675 men) killed and mutilated an estimated 70–163 Native Americans peaceful Southern Cheyenne and Arapahoe Indians at Sand Creek, in southeastern Colorado Territory. About two-thirds of whom were women and children) when I had the idea of that story.

 _Jim_ _: Artie, you couldn't be quiet, not even at your own funeral, could you?  
_ _Artie_ _ **:**_ _Well, somebody had to tell the truth._

 _TNOT Skulls_

 _Jim: Thanks, Artie._

 _Artie: "Thanks, Artie"? Is that all you can say to me? I've just come back from the grave, risen like Lazarus,and that's what you say? "Thanks, Artie"?_

 _Jim: Thanks, Artie._

 _Artie: It's a pleasure._

 _TNOT Pistoleros_

 _Many thanks to my beta reader Tripidydoodah._

Warning: graphic violence, drama. Angst & hurt / comfort. Suicide attempt. PTSD.

WWW

 **TEASER**

 _Washington D.C. mid-November_

 _At night_

 _Now_

Once the two lovely ladies were gone, Artemus Gordon closed the door, locked it and headed toward the table, joining his partner there.

Outside it was still raining heavily and the thunder rumbled. It had been going on for a couple of hours now, and showed absolutely no signs of abating.

The older man rubbed his temples tiredly and said, "The onion soup was edible, but barely, and I didn't like the stew, despite what I said before eating it. I don't love stew, in general and this one in particular. The meat was overcooked and there was too much sauce and it had no flavor but the wine was good. Next time, let me chose the restaurant and takeaways." He gave Jim a half-smile. "Listen to me… I barely ate a thing in six months and I am choosy. I should be happy not to eat lizards and snakes anymore, but onion soup and stew instead, but I'm still a gourmet, so old habits die hard, I suppose…"

Looking down at Artie's plate, food half intact Jim said, "I agree, the dinner was passable… But that's not why you barely touched your food Artie. You can't live without eating buddy…"

Deliberately avoiding Jim's concerned gaze, Artemus poured some red wine into his glass. "I eat, but not much. I'm not hungry."

Flabbergasted Jim lifted his eyebrows. "Not much? Birds eat more than you do, Artie. You have barely touched food since you came back."

Ignoring his partner's remark, Artemus picked up a hazelnut cookie from a plate and ate a few bites, grimacing at the taste. "Not as good as mine, that's for sure..." He commented, and then he almost gagged, not because it wasn't good but because he couldn't eat anything without feeling nauseous. He dropped what was left of it, almost half of it, on the table. "Even the cookies are bad." Heavy-limbed he padded to the golden couch and sat on it. "The food wasn't the best I ate, but the company of the lovely waitresses was nice." He smiled. "Thank you Jim, that was a very nice surprise. I loved it." He yawned and stretched both his arms and legs feeling like they weighed tons. "We'll do the dishes tomorrow… I'm far too tired to do anything tonight." Then he took a sip of wine.

Pouring himself a cup of hot coffee Jim nodded. "Yes, that can wait. You need to get some sleep buddy," He said and frowned in concern again.

But he knew he wouldn't. Artemus had barely slept since his return to the Wanderer. When you don't sleep you can't have nightmares. "Maybe you should try laudanum to sleep."

But Artemus shook his head. "No, it's a powerful drug and I don't want to become an addict."

Sipping his coffee, Jim continued to observe his companion who had spent half a year far away from him with the Comanche and had come back only two days ago.

Despite his deep suntan, Artie didn't look healthy, at all. His face was drawn, his cheekbones were even more prominent than before, his cheeks hollow and his jawline sharp and mostly strained and marked by what had happened to him – and he didn't know what. Artie didn't want to talk about it – he just knew that the last days had been horrible, that's all. He had insisted, but his best friend had replied, "It's the best you're getting."

No one knew what had happened - except the President. Artemus had given his report to Grant who had read it before sending Artie to the Military Hospital for a complete medical evaluation. No one else, not even Artie's mom, Harry or him, to whom Artie told everything, knew what had happened. What had made Artemus Gordon the shadow of the man he was before.

He had lost a weight during his six months plus stay with the Comanche who had limited resources of food in their settlement, and were on the edge of being underweight. Yellow Arrow's Comanche had cattle but they were a large band, and had to ration in order to feed everyone. They often ate snakes and lizards, plus some armadillos and skunks to survive. He sported a leaner body, less filled with bulky muscle than it should be and it looked as if he was drowning in his clothes.

Since he had come back he ate the bare minimum to stay alive.

He wasn't going to regain some weight eating less than a bird. Something terrible had happened to his friend, _le bon vivant_ , and made him lose his legendary good appetite. Nothing before had succeeded in cutting off his appetite. What had happened?

He had lost his _joie de vivre_ too – but why? - and tried to hide it, like when he had proposed two hours ago going out on the town with 'a couple of lovelies' he knew, then go to a good restaurant. But it was just a façade. He was a very good actor and that helped.

His best friend had changed drastically; he wasn't the same man he was before he had disappeared. He sincerely hoped that the old Artemus would re-appear one day.

He sighed. If only he could help Artie… and talking about what was haunting him was a good start.

Ending his train of thought, Jim poured himself another cup of coffee, and took his place on the couch beside his best friend.

He sighed and said, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Artemus." He settled the cup of coffee on the table. "If only I had managed to stop Daniel Danford, and his posse, nothing that happened afterwards, would have happened," he said, feeling guilty. "I was hit by a stray bullet. It grazed my temple and I passed out, and I fell from my horse. As they thought I was prisoner of the 'Apaches' they threw me across my saddle and kept me with them until they were firing at the Comanche, killing a few of them."

Images of the attack popping into his mind, Artemus nodded. "Yes, I remember. Curiously the same thing happened to me: a stray bullet grazed my temple, I passed out and I fell from my horse… The difference is they took me for an Indian, as I was wearing Indian clothing. By the way, it's a good thing you managed to bring Lockpick home. I love that horse."

Jim nodded. "Lockpick was distressed without you and Mo was too. Those poor horses were lost without you." He took a sip. "And I too..." He trailed off.

Looking down at his hands, covered with healing burns, Artie said, "I know." He sighed and added, "I fell to the ground and hit my head hard on a rock. Silver Cloud managed to pick me up, and we fled," he said. He paused and added, "When I woke up, hours later, I wasn't Artemus Gordon anymore but Strong Bear, the Comanche warrior and speaking the Comanche language only. I only remembered the Comanche-me wearing a breechcloth and loose-fitting deerskin leggings, and moccasins, but naked from the waist up with my face painted with black stripes as a camouflage… before we attacked Torres, Loveless and their men… I had severe selective amnesia. The only thing I remembered was my life as a Comanche – because I often stayed with Yellow Arrow's band, during my leaves - enjoying their simple life and I learned the Comanche language with him." He paused. "Don't feel guilty, please, you don't have to. You did your best to stop them, Jim and you could have died doing it…. There was nothing else you could've done."

Jim nodded. "I can't help it Artie…" He continued his story: "I woke up hours later in Danford's ranch and I hit his face, before telling him that he had made a terrible mistake."

Still staring at his hands, now trembling a little, Artie rasped with a strangled voice, "It was a _dreadful mistake_ , as it started a series of tragic events…" He paused and closed his eyes for a few seconds, his heart pounding violently against his chest. He could feel the burning pain on his skin once more… He drew a deep breath and managed to calm down and block the images and sounds and even smells of his torments painfully flooding his memory. But he knew it was only temporary. He had vivid flashbacks, right in the middle of the day and each time he closed his eyes, he relived that hell. He let out a helpless sigh. "Go on." Catching Jim's concerned gaze he added, "I'm fine."

Knowing that it wasn't the truth, Jim continued, "I reached the Comanche settlement near Piedra Blanca three days after the attack, and I found it empty. I searched for you, for days, but there were no sign of Yellow Arrow's band of Comanche and of course no sign of you either. I knew that you weren't dead, Artie. For me you had just disappeared." He touched his chest, above his heart. "I could feel it deep in my heart, deep in my bones. I knew that you were with the Comanche, somewhere, but I didn't know why you didn't come back. But I knew you were safe with them. After almost six months without any news from you, Colonel Richmond declared you had died in the line of duty. Then we held your funeral in Arlington cemetery. We buried an empty casket…"

Artemus cracked a small smile. "Again. Well, at least my grave is ready…for the next, and final time I die. You have attended my funeral three times already, you know… no, four times, if you count the time I was buried before Colonel Vautrain changed the past and saved my life. But I don't consider it because neither you nor I remember it. So…. The first time I was there, disguised as a priest, and people gathered around my grave loved my sermon."

Jim nodded and said. "I arrived after your sermon." He sighed. "But this last time I was there to pronounce your eulogy… even if I knew that you were not dead. It was short and I finished it with a quote from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, because I know your love for the English bard." He cleared his throat and quoted, "'When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.'"

A smile appeared on Artie's pale lips. "I appreciate that, thank you."

Jim continued, "It was the second time I watched your casket being lowered into the ground, in a span of a few days. But this time the coffin was empty. No faux-Artemus Gordon inside. But I knew you weren't dead. That's why I refused to have a new partner. I was waiting for you to return and I worked alone." His smile broadened, and he added, "And, a few days later you reappeared and it was the most beautiful day of my life! I was right, you weren't dead, just disappeared." He gave his partner a watery smile. "I know I already said this many times, but I'm so glad you're back…"

Rubbing his forehead, Artie nodded. "Me too. You didn't find me because the Comanche had left the settlement erasing all trace of their passage so as not to be tracked and attacked by whites…" He stopped and heaved a wrenching sigh, tears coming to his eyes.

A Pause.

The rain was heavier now and the pieces of ice bigger and they were being blown into the side of the train by the wind.

Finally, Artie croaked, "They built another one, in the Llano Estacado with more water and a bigger mesa for the horses and cattle." He regained composure and said, "I was hurt, and my friends took care of me, but if I didn't come back, that's because I forgot who I was and even my own native language. Silver Cloud and the others told me who I was, in Comanche language, a white man called Artemus Gordon, and what I did, with whom – you - but I didn't believe them. I was Strong Bear, a Comanche warrior… and I am. They didn't insist, happy to have me, a man marked by the Sacred Kwihnai at their sides. I would bring the protection of the Big Father upon the band… " He heaved a long, sad sigh and his voice cracked, "But I didn't." He swallowed past the lump in his throat and, after a few seconds, he eventually calmed down enough to say, his voice hoarse, "I was Strong Bear, Comanche warrior for almost six months, living with my adoptive band. Then things turned bad, very bad…"

A new Pause.

Suddenly there was a huge thunderclap coming almost simultaneously with the flash of light that crashed not far from the Wanderer.

Expecting the occurrence… Jim didn't move or let out a sound, he even stopped breathing, hoping that Artemus would tell him what happened, to get that off his chest, to feel better.

Something terrible had happened, he knew, so horrible that Artemus had been traumatized by it. He placed his hand on Artie's comfortingly and immediately the other man flinched away and moved it back.

In a flash Artemus's body tensed up ready to fight and his eyes darkening, the older man snapped, "Don't touch me! Don't touch me, ever!"

Raising a hand in a peace gesture, Jim said, "Easy buddy, I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry Artemus, I won't touch you again." He had forgotten that detail. His partner now avoided any physical contact, he thought. And he knew why. He had seen POWs react like that with doctors taking care of them after being freed from hell. They had been humiliated and tortured.

As if he had read Jim's mind, Artie relaxed, but just a little. He yawned loudly and said, "I'm sorry Jim…" He took a deep breath and he whispered. "Lowell's men, they… they humiliated me, they tortured me… and now I can't… I can't bear to be touched."

Frowning Jim asked, gently, "Who's Lowell? What happened?... Tell me Artie. let it out. It's a good thing to talk to a friend. A burden shared is a burden halved, right?" There was a long silence between them, Jim hopeful that his best friend would open up to him. "Come on, buddy." He smiled and tried humor. Artie loved that. "Tell me everything before your old 'noggin' turns to mush… "

Staring straight ahead at the white wall in front of him, Artemus leaned against the backrest of the couch. He raked a nervous hand through his hair and he started to speak, his mouth dry, his voice tight with strain, "White men… I mean prospectors searching for gold discovered a large vein, close to the new settlement of the Comanche in the Llano Estacado, in the Caprock Escarpment. The news spread fast in the region and a large group of prospectors, cattlemen, farmers and buffalo hunters led by a rancher called Carter Lowell attacked the settlement to be able to find gold safely, without fearing to be attacked by a band of Comanche…" He paused, the silence only troubled by the rain and beads of hail lashing against the windows pummeling the roof of the train. "I didn't know that when they attacked. Colonel Ferguson of fort Denton, where I was brought… after… told me that." He took a deep breath, swallowed hard and continued. "I don't regret anything. If I had to kill those men again, I would," he said, determinedly as his right hand clenched and unclenched in anger, at his side. "They attacked the Comanche settlement without warming. Defenseless old men, women and children were shot, their bodies… their bodies…" He paused and let out a low whimper, with tears in his eyes. He tried to fight the tightness in his throat, he couldn't. He took a breath, ignoring the taste of bile in his throat as he spoke, his voice hoarse with intense, raw, emotion, "They were scalped and their bodies mutilated – for souvenirs. I did my best to protect them, fighting them among the other warriors, but I was hurt… and I fell off my horse." He touched the back of his head automatically. "Silver Cloud and a group of twenty braves somehow managed to escape the massacre but I was captured. Colonel Richmond told me that the surviving Comanche warriors led by Silver Cloud were captured later by a cavalry detachment and deported to the Indian Territory the day after I was put onto a train to Washington D.C. They joined the Comanche already settled there. They lost everything, their families, their friends, what they had… tepees, belongings, even their independence… they're not free to go where they want now." Tears rolled down his gaunt cheeks. "The last thing I saw, the last thing I saw… was… was Red Crows's daughters Little Willow and Red Leaf… lying in a pool of their blood, both scalped," he finished, a thin layer of sweat covering his face, his voice heavy and thick with deep, wrenching sorrow. He resisted the urge to be sick as a wave of nausea hit him and he let out a strangled sob.

Jim's eyes widened and he stared at Artemus, numb with shock. Then, an expression of pure horror showed on his pale face and he put his hands over his mouth. "Oh my God!" He nearly vomited before swallowing hard and forcing his stomach to behave. His heart sank.

He knew now why his best friend was so traumatized, why he didn't sleep or eat, why he had horrible nightmares… He was in terrible pain, he thought.

Crying openly, Artemus added, "They were killed…Yellow Arrow the peace Chief, Red Crow the medicine man, Long-Tailed Coyote, Spotted-Horse, Yellow Bird, that lovely woman… all of them, almost the whole band died and I stayed alive… They could have killed me, and I wished they did when I saw that almost everyone I knew and loved or was dead, around me. I would have died as a warrior by protecting my band… but they captured me and brought me to their camp, to play with me… I stayed a week in their hands. They took me for a Comanche. I looked like one, fought like one, talked like one, had a Comanche tattoo on my back…. They threw me at the bottom of a dry well and left me there, in the heat, without food and water to see how long I was going to resist. I resisted for four days. Then, they pulled me out and put a rope around my neck… and they dragged me behind a horse… They threw rocks at me… they burnt my hands and feet…. Then, they tied me to pickets buried in the sand, expecting that rattlesnakes come to bite me, so that I died in horrible suffering ... but no rattlesnake came. Finally they decided to hang me. I had a rope looped around my neck when, fortunately for me, an old prospector called Caldwell who was part of the group recognized me; or rather he recognized my eyes, before it was too late. He had served at my side during the war. I was his Captain. He checked my battle scars to be sure and told the others who I was. I… I didn't put this in my report to the President… in order to humiliate me, two men stripped me of my clothes in front of everyone, then, when I was naked, they forced me to move on all fours and they gave me a bath like a dog, and… they cut my beaded scalp locks and my braids…" Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed it down.

Having said that Artemus ran a tired hand through his hair searching for his missing Indian scalp locks and braids. "They weren't long, but long enough to be ones. For a Comanche it's the worst kind of humiliation as we-they took pride in their hair." He mopped his tears with the back of his sleeve, and with a sudden lighter spirit, he said, "That's why I now have much less hair and that awful, flat, hairstyle… The hairdresser did his best to make me presentable. My locks were gone and I don't think they're going to come back until I feel fine again. I have a theory you know, hair is a good indicator of our health… "

Smiling inwardly, Jim thought, 'it's something that the 'old Artie' would say. He's still here, and he'll resurface, one day. But when?'

Artemus continued, "Mine lacks energy, like me…." He paused. He ran a hand over his wet eyes and felt very tired, beyond exhausted. "Like me."

Running a hand through his own tamed hair, Jim said, "Are you sure about that theory of yours? My hair is like your hair, buddy, and I'm fine."

Artie nodded. "You cut your hair, tamed your hair… that's different. I'm so stressed that my hair is stressed too and refuses to be like it was before…" He took a deep breath, noticing that he was cold, suddenly and had goose bumps on his arms. He swallowed. "Lowell's men… they had fun removing all my hair… everywhere. They insulted me, called me a traitor to my people… I didn't understand them at that time, but when I was myself again, I remembered every word. I remembered everything. Caldwell gave me some white man's clothes and the next morning he brought me to Fort Denton, then he left. The medical officer took care of me, while Colonel Ferguson sent a telegram to Washington. I was very weak, but I tried to escape, hitting a couple of soldiers in the process. By the end of the afternoon, I was on a train to Washington, cleaned, my hair cut and wearing a suit – but handcuffed and framed between two soldiers. They escorted me up to the Wanderer, to you… It was Dr. Henderson's idea. He thought that seeing you would trigger the return of my memory, the complete one. And you were there, Jim, at the railroad station, standing on the rear platform of the Wanderer, waiting for me, smiling, crying with joy, and when I saw you… all of a sudden everything came back. I wasn't amnesiac anymore. It worked." He wiped his tears and stood, giving the other man a small smile. "You brought me back, Jim, you saved me." His voice trembled and he tried to gather himself.

Standing in his turn, Jim reached out to place a comforting hand on the older man's arm but froze remembering that Artie couldn't bear to be touched and he lowered it to his side. "But you miss being Strong Bear, the Comanche brave."

Eyes unfocused again, lost in his memories, Artie nodded distractedly. "I miss my friends, and the boys and girls I played with." He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his weary face. "Good night, Jim. Sleep well. See you tomorrow."

He headed toward the door, shoulders hunched.

Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully Jim moved toward the writing table and opened the telegraph box. Artemus needed comfort.

He had done what he could, Helena and Harry too then, after a weekend stay here in Washington, but it wasn't enough.

He hoped that the General-then-President-still-mother-hen Grant could help Artemus. He received the response from the White House to his telegram ten minutes later. Atermus Gordon was summoned in the President's office the following morning, at 10 AM.

In his bed, huddled under a warm blanket and a thick bedspread, Artemus fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering against the glass of his window and the warmth of Marmalade and Aztec sprawled on the pillow each side of his neck.

WWW

 _Later that night_

Still shocked by what Artemus had told him, Jim couldn't sleep.

Each time he closed his eyes he saw Red Crow's daughters, dead, both lying in a pool of their own blood, scalped. With those images in his head, and with even more horrible memories, he knew now why Artie couldn't sleep at night. Wouldn't sleep at night to avoid nightmares.

He rolled over and yawned. According to his watch, it was almost two AM. He put it back on the nightstand and stood.

He left his sleeping compartment and headed toward the galley for the Washington Herald he had left on the couch.

It was dark in the parlor suite, but not enough for him not to notice the opened door… accompanied by the cold rain-damp air.

Suddenly there was a flash of light that illuminated the pitch dark night sky for a moment, followed closely by booming thunder.

He spotted Artemus's silhouetted shadow in the darkness. His best friend was standing on the rear platform, hands on the railing, leaning against it, as the rain spattered on him.

The other man was wearing only his black striped pajamas pants which were plastered to his hips, buttocks and legs.

The rain (no hail) was falling harder than before, if possible.

He was tipping his head back, face upturned to the stormy sky – feeling the rain on his skin.

Jim lit the candles of the candlestick sat on the table and took the folded coverlet from the couch. Then he padded toward his best friend stepping out into the downpour.

His whole body was instantly soaked.

Artie was engrossed in watching the thunderstorm and drenched from head to toe by the pouring rain falling obliquely, ice-cold water cascading down his shivering body. "Artie, what are you doing out here, buddy? Come inside. It's dangerous to stay here."

Another crack of thunder and another boom echoed snapping Artemus out of his thoughts. He slowly turned toward his partner, beads of water dripping down his face - noting in passing that he was shivering – and said, "I always loved thunderstorms. I find them relaxing, for some reason… I love the sound of the rain and thunder, I find it rather comforting…" Then his look became haunted. He was gripping the railing in front of him so hard that his knuckles were white. "It was raining when they attacked the settlement… I remember that the shots were mixed with the thunder and lightning bolts," he said with a husky voice. He screwed his eyes shut and let out a sigh, long and pained.

His dark hair flattening and slicking, Jim wiped the rain from his eyes and shivered as he was frozen to the bone too. He was reaching out when he remembered that Artie didn't like to be touched. When the massive lightning bolt lit up the sky, Jim urged, "Let's get inside Artie, you are soaked wet and cold. I don't want you to end up with a cold or struck by lightning!" Then he placed the coverlet on Artemus's shoulders (without touching his best friend) and the older man smiled. "Your mom told me to take care of you, and I am," he explained. Then he reached for the door – showing the way to Artemus, stumbling.

They both entered the parlor suite.

There was another flash of light accompanied by thunder, closer, and Artemus flinched and winced. "You know, thunder sounds like canons firing… maybe there's a war up there…" he said. Shivering, he crossed his now slender arms over his bare chest, showing his ribs clearly visible on his side, covering some of the nasty bruises and raw scrapes and cuts there. "Do you remember the war, Jim?"

Moving to stand next to his best friend, Jim nodded. "Yes, I remember everything, and I remember meeting an extraordinary man."

Artie nodded. "Yes, I met him too. General Grant was an extraordinary man, and he's now an extraordinary president."

Jim smiled. "Yes, he is, but I was thinking about you."

Looking at Jim's dripping frame Artemus nodded. "I know that, but thank you. You're not so bad yourself; for a drowned cat," he said with a half-smile.

Immediately Jim beamed with joy. That was the Artemus he knew. The man with the witty sense of humor. He was still there. Somewhere, he mused. 'Please, come back Artie,' he thought.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning cracked. Again.

"The Great Sprit is furious… and he lets us know… He witnessed so many horrors…" Artemus said, swaying in place, blinking blearily. Finally realizing that he was drenched, cold and shivering, he added, "I need a hot shower and a change of clothes. See you in the morning, Jim. Thanks for the coverlet."

Then he headed toward the door leading to the narrow walkway, staggering.

Still grinning, Jim closed the door, the rain splattering against the panel glass in dull thuds. "See you in the morning, Artie."

But his smiled vanished from his lips. A sleep-deprived Artie wouldn't sleep.

Tbc.


	2. Act One

**THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT ONE**

 _The next morning_

 _President Grant's office_

Rolls of thunder growled in the distance when Ulysses S. Grant moved away from the window and headed toward his Louis XV style table made with precious wood and golden bronze ornaments. Files and books were piled there.

He pointed at a chair. "Sit down, Artemus, please."

He watched Artemus sit on one of the chairs placed in front of his work table – the other man looking wrecked, about ready to collapse – dressed in rumpled clothes, then he shook a bell.

One minute later, a servant appeared holding a shining silver tray on which was placed an old, battered coffee pot and two cups.

Grant smiled. "Thank you Stafford."

The servant put the tray on a free corner of the desk, smiled in response and then went away silently. Looking back at what was left of one of his two best agents, the President cringed.

Grant noticed that Jim West was right. The agent hadn't slept and was clearly exhausted. He had darkened bags under his red, tired, eyes, that nearly swallowed them and his high cheekbones jutted out through tight, tanned skin.

Pouring a cup of coffee into a cup, he smiled and said, "I kept that pot of coffee throughout the war and I still keep it, and Stafford knows that I like to use it when I'm alone or with friends… " His smile vanished, replaced by a concerned frown. "How are you, Artemus?"

Artemus blinked blearily, waiting for his brain to process the words, and he gave the President a forced smile. "Dr. Henderson said…"

Grant pursed his lips and gave Artemus a disapproving look – but in a not-too-harsh-paternal way. "I know what Dr. Henderson said and wrote," he interrupted the other man. "I read his report after you had that complete medical examination, yesterday morning. I want to know how you're feeling, your words, not Stephen's." He frowned. "And don't lie to me. You never did, so don't start."

Combing his fingers through his hair in agitation, Artie swallowed. "I've been better, Sir." He answered honestly and saw Grant frown, upset, so he added, "I… errr… I'm not feeling too well…" Hunching his shoulders, he clenched his hands on his lap and lowered his eyes, avoiding eye-contact, suddenly fascinated by the golden arabesque patterns of the carpet covering the floor under Grant's large work table. "It was the Sand Creek massacre all over again, Sir, except that there were no soldiers involved this time, just a large group of white men… a large group of prospectors, cattlemen, farmers and buffalo hunters… "

Grant nodded. "I know."

His voice weak, Artie continued, "I can't help but think about it, all the time, Sir. Night and day, 'reliving' the massacre of my friends, of all the children… it comes in flashbacks, in vivid memories, right in the middle of the day and I don't want to sleep anymore, to avoid being plagued by the most terrible nightmares."

Ulysses S. Grant took his place on a chair, beside the younger man and placed the cup of fresh coffee in Artie's hand. "After I read your report, I immediately gave orders. Carter Lowell and all the people involved in what happened in the Comanche settlement and involved in what happened to you after that, have been arrested by Colonel Harvey of fort Denton, and they will be tried and hanged for assault, torture and mass murder. I will personally see to it. What they did is… there are no words strong enough to qualify what they did." He sighed and added, "Colonel Harvey let his Indian scouts take care of the burials… following the Comanche tradition and they removed… everything from the mesa, burning everything."

He placed a soothing hand on Artemus's arm and Artie instantly flinched and recoiled, almost baring his teeth like an angry bear.

Grant frowned in concern. He had seen Artemus have this kind of reaction before, after he was tortured during the war. He knew that he had been humiliated by those men but Artemus hadn't provided details about that in his report, because he wanted to keep them personal, he reflected.

It was clear now that he had been tortured.

He sighed and said, 'You can't stay like this son… I'm going to talk about this to Dr. Henderson, he'll find a solution to help you. But first… I know that you wrote a long and very detailed report, telling what happened from the day you left Fort Challenge to your meeting with your partner, but I'd like you to tell me that story. It would relieve your burden. This would help you, son."

Pale, nervous, Artemus twisted the cup around in his hands. He bowed his head and stared straight down into his coffee.

Grant nodded. "I'm all ears."

WWW

 _The past_

 _Six months plus one week ago_

 _Sonoran desert, at sunset_

 _En route to Phoenix_

Sitting on his bed roll, leaning against a rounded rock, his plate filled with pork meat and beans stew resting on his lap, Jim observed his partner crouched beside the campfire, preparing Turkish coffee. Artemus looked dead beat. His eyes were black underneath; his face was pale and tired looking. He was moving slowly, like an old man.

He sighed. "Artie? Promise me something…"

The older man glanced at his best friend before placing a small saucepan containing water on a heated stone beside the fire. "Hmm, what?"

Sitting his plate on the ground, on the side, Jim said, "Don't die. I don't want to attend your funeral again." His shoulders sagged. "I watched you die, I buried you. I can't take it anymore." He bit his lip in an attempt to stop the tears coming, but to no avail. He quickly mopped his wet eyes.

Seeing that Jim was seriously distressed, Artie motioned toward him, kneeling at his side. "I can't promise you that, Jim. Everyone dies. That's life. But I can promise you that I'll do my best to stay alive till I'm very, very old. Then I shall die in my bed, peacefully, of old age."

Jim frowned. "And I will attend you funeral, Artie, because you're much older than me… unless I die before you of course."

Pressing Jim's shoulder in a soothing gesture, Artie said, "Logically, yes, I'll be the first one, and you'll attend my funeral." He paused. "I know it was very hard for you, Jim and I would have reacted the same way you did if I had lost you."

Eyes downcast Jim nodded. His throat felt suddenly dry. He cleared it. "You were dead Artie… half-lying at the bottom of that stairs… shot in your back and I had your blood on my hands, and there was so much blood." A lump formed in his throat, overwhelmed by grief again. "I cried, holding you in my arms, I cried as I had never cried before… A part of me died with you the moment I realized you were dead, gone, passed away, definitively. It hurt so much!" He dropped his head to hide the tears in his eyes. "God! I mourned you every second since then…until I saw you, alive, on that landing, smiling to me. After you died, it was the worse days of my life and then, when I saw you, the most fantastic day of my life."

Opening his arms Artemus pulled James into a comforting bone-crushing hug. "Shhh… I'm sorry Jim. I'm here, alive, It wasn't me but a double of me, and I was never dead."

Crying softly against Artie's chest, Jim wrapped his arms around the other man's back. "I didn't know that…," he choked out against Artie's collar. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your body, cold, ashen, motionless on that table in the infirmary at Fort Challenge. I see your dead body resting in your coffin, I see the military funeral service, and I see your coffin being lowered into that hole…"

Petting his partner's hair, Artemus said, "When Armando Galiano told me his plan, I was aghast and furious. I knew that my death – that my doppleganger's death - would leave you devastated." He paused feeling tears soaking through his shirt, holding Jim close to him. "And I doubled my efforts then to free myself. I wanted to show you that I wasn't dead. I wanted you to feel good again, happy."

Parting from Artemus, James brushed his tears away, and he sniffed, wiping at his eyes again and turning his sleeve damp. "And you did, having captured that doctor and killed Galiano." He smiled. "Thanks Artie."

Smiling Artie said, "It was a pleasure… and I'll never forget that look of utter stupefaction on your face." Then he chuckled softly, mockingly.

Frowning, a bit upset, Jim replied. "I thought you were dead!"

Smiling Artie stood and retreated back toward the campfire. Crouching there, grimacing in pain as his whole body felt sore.

Every muscle in his body hurt and his injured wrists were burning.

Feeling his scraped wrists itch, he rolled up his sleeves and rubbed the bandages covering the abrasions left by the ropes binding him to that pipe.

His eyebrows knit together Jim pointed at Artie's bandaged left wrist. "What's that?"

Glancing at a Jim wearing a concerned expression then at his bandaged and aching wrists, then looking back at his frowning partner Artie responded, "Oh, it's nothing. There are just rope burns and general muscle soreness. Colonel Roper has the same thing. We were both tightly bound to that thick pipe, I told you, and we had to unscrew it pulling on our bindings in order to escape that secret room,." He smiled reassuringly. "I'm ok Jim, really. I've had far worse than this, you know that." He added four teaspoons of ground coffee beans to the boiling water and two teaspoons of sugar. Changing the conversation, he said, "I prepared that ground coffee myself, pounding the roasted coffee beans in a mortar to the finest possible powder."

Not feeling better, but famished, Jim took his plate and fork and began wolfing down Artie's pork meat and beans stew. "Delicious," he complimented, licking his lips.

Pleased, Artie stirred the coffee and the sugar until the coffee sank and the sugar was dissolved. "My pleasure," he said.

Finally relaxing after days of stress and tension, Jim smiled and said, "I forgot to compliment you on your latest disguise Artie. You were a very convincing general Rydell."

Artemus let the preparation heat gently until the mixture started to rise. "Fortunately for us, the Wanderer had arrived in the railway station an hour ago before dawn. I had just enough time to disguise myself. Unfortunately our train needs repairs again. That's why we are forced to return to Phoenix on horseback. It should take a week or so to repair the engine."

Glancing at Blackjack, then looking at Artemus again Jim nodded. "I don't mind traveling on horseback. I love riding."

Artie took of the spoon. Stirring it would dissolve the foam on top. Then he placed the saucepan on the sand, out of the heat of the fire. "I don't. I'm going to have saddle sores, I prefer traveling in the Wanderer, it's far more comfortable."

Jim smiled. "Sybarite."

Artemus brought the coffee to a boil a second time. "And there is no risk of traveling aboard our train, but traveling here on the other hand... and I'm not talking about the dangerous fauna but about the Chiricahua Apache!" He brought the coffee to boil a third time. "They were living peacefully in the reservation at Sulphur Springs when Cochise was alive, now that he's dead, a group of 50 warriors has left the reservation and those Chiricahua are attacking Mexican/American settlements and ranches on each side of the border. Their goal is to take hostages, to use them in negotiations to force the Government to suppress the reservation, to 'release' the Chiricahua and give the Chiricahua their lands back. They move very fast, by small groups, over long distances and nobody knows where their camp is." He finally poured Turkish coffee into two tin mugs and handed one to his best friend, saying, "Be careful, it's hot!"

Placing his empty plate on the sand, Jim took the battered mug and smelled the strong aroma. He plunged his finger into the thick foam on it and licked it.

Taking his own travel mug Artie chuckled. "How very mature." Then he sat cross-legged beside the campfire and sipped his strong coffee in silence.

Jim copied him.

Once his was empty, Jim covered the mug with his empty plate and turned it upside-down. He showed Artie the coffee grounds sitting at the bottom of the mug, creating intricate patterns and said "One says the grounds left after drinking Turkish coffee can be used for fortune-telling."

Taking a sip of his hot beverage, Artemus nodded. "Yes, they do. It's called tasseography or tasseomancy or tassology, Jim. The terms derive from the French word for cup, _tasse," h_ e said. "But it works with mugs too because they are a type of cup, or tasse."

Jim nodded too. "And I know a man who's like a brother to me, who spent months with a group of gypsies when he was young. He learnt a lot of things with them: like practicing magic and methods of divination – and he was very good at coffee reading, he told me once. Well, Artemus, what can you tell me?"

Smiling, Artemus sat his own mug on the ground and took Jim's, turning it toward the other man – as it was required in revealing the fortune. "I haven't done this for years. I'm a bit rusty. I could interpret the patterns wrongly." He kept the mug in his hands, giving the coffee grounds time to dry before he could read them. "I was pretty good in both magic and fortune telling. They wanted – I mean the gypsies – they wanted to keep me in their little troupe, but I couldn't stay. I left after 8 fantastic months. I wanted to be an actor. I enjoyed being amongst gypsies again the last time we met a group of them. Do you remember that white baby elephant that wasn't white after all, but painted in white?"

Jim nodded. "Of course I remember – I washed that baby elephant with you. And I remember that you did a little magic before we left. That was great!"

Bowing his head Artie chuckled. "They were simple tricks. But thank you. If one day I lose my job, I could become a magician." Looking inside the mug, Artie added, "There are many ways to interpret the grounds sitting at the bottom of the cup or mug. But I'm going to use the Turkish way as traditionally coffee readers use Turkish coffee. The symbols appearing on the bottom half of the cup are usually interpreted as messages regarding the past, and symbols on the top half represent messages regarding the future." He frowned, concentrating, analyzing the patterns, translating them in symbols and then he read, "Let's start with the past. I can see the shapes of two horses but one rider… and then the forms of two riders… it's easy to interpret. You came with someone, you lost him, you found him and you are together again." He smiled. "And I'm glad we are together again. That was the past, now let's see what the future will bring…"

He suddenly froze hearing both Jim's horse, Blackjack and his own horse Lockpick neigh in alarm and saw them move nervously.

There was a flash of movement in Jim's peripheral vision and Artemus and he were suddenly surrounded by a dozen Indians, pointing obsidian tipped arrows and long spears at them.

Slowly, Jim raised his hands. "Let me guess, you can read in my mug that we'll be attacked by Chiricahua Apache."

Lowering the mug, slowly, Artie nodded. "I read bad symbols… but I didn't have time to interpret them, but yes, they probably concur." He lifted his hands too, slowly.

Motioning toward the two Secret Agents a tall and muscular Apache, bare chested, wearing a beaded band around each arm, beaded necklaces and ear pendants, said in English, "You are on the Chiricahua ancestral land white men." He pulled his knife out of his belt. "I'm going to kill you, slowly."

Standing, Artemus faced the warrior. He puffed out his chest and lifted his head in an attempt to be intimidating, his chin was jutting out, daring the Apache. "Don't even try! Kill me, and you will anger the Great Spirit!"... He remembered that the Apache people believed in a main Creator god called Ussen and added, "I've been marked by an eagle, which serves as a messenger between humans and the Creator, to show people that the Great Spirit, the Creator – you call Ussen - is protecting me." Then he removed his fringed bi-colored jacket, his black ribbon tie, his yellow shirt and showed his naked back to the burly Indian, and also to all the warriors accompanying their leader.

He heard them converse between them animatedly then and jumped when he felt a warm hand touch his bare back, tracing the contours of the scars left by the eagle's talons. He felt fingertips trace his Comanche tattoo after that.

He specified. "It's a Comanche tattoo. I'm an adoptive Comanche warrior called Strong Bear." He turned around, chest out, arms crossed, staring fearlessly at the warrior. "And I'm White Eagle, a Cheyenne warrior, blood brother of American Knife, a Medicine Man. I earned two eagle feathers." He pointed at Jim. "He's my brother. Harming him, means harming me. Oh, and I am a Crow warrior too."

Impressed, the warrior took a step back. He ordered something in his language and two warriors approached holding leather tongs.

Once the two agent's wrists were tied at their backs, he said, "The Great Spirit won't be angered at me, White Cheyenne, because everything I do, I do it to free my people, whatever it takes. My name is Red Knife. I'm the leader of one of the groups of free Chokonen-Chiricahua warriors."

Jim nodded. "By free warriors, you mean the warriors who left the reservation at Sulphur Springs after Cochise's death?"

Red Knife nodded too. "Yes. We're free now and we're going to have our land back. I'm not going to kill you. I don't want to anger the Great Spirit, and you are most valuable whites." He looked at Artemus still in Indian warrior mode. "Or half-white, half-Indian for you. I will exchange you for all my people captured by the soldiers and prisoners in Fort Benson." He gave another order and a rope was rolled up around his prisoners' necks. "We have a long way ahead of us. I want you to be comfortable." He ordered two other warriors to gather Jim and Artie's belongings and two others to take care of their horses. Then he moved inside Artie's personal space and planted his eyes on Artemus's. "Don't try anything. I wouldn't kill you – but I know how to torture people…and I like it, a lot. It won't be the first time I do that to whites."

He gestured and a warrior led a pinto horse to him. Holding Artie's rope in his left hand, he jumped on his gelding and tugged, tightening the noose.

Immediately Artie gasped and winced. Then he glared at the Apache his jaw tightly clenched.

Red Knife smirked. "I'm going to take good care of you, White Cheyenne," he said before kicking his horse into motion.

WWW

 _The next morning, at dawn_

Half-chocking, Artemus's legs buckled. He crumpled to the sandy ground, covered with sharp pebbles, grazing his knees and winced. He could feel rivulets of blood running down his neck to his collarbone along with beads of sweat, his skin rubbed raw and grazed with rope burns.

Red Knife slid off his horse and kicked Artemus in his back, sending him head first into the river. "Drink, White Cheyenne!" He pointed his knife as Jim moved toward him, eyes black and cold. "Stay where you are, white man!" He grabbed a handful of Artie's hair and pulled his head backward. "Or I'm going to make your friend bleed more…"

Glaring at the Indian warrior Jim backed off reluctantly.

Red Knife pushed Artie to the side, face first in a patch of dried grass and the other man remained immobile, hurting and exhausted. His eyes were closed and his mouth was gaping open slackly, sucking in the hot dry air around him.

"You are weak, White Eagle!" he said with a contemptuous look. "You're no warrior to me." He dropped the rope to the ground and walked his pinto horse to the river to water him.

Jim slumped on a flat rock, deeply worried about his partner. Artie had already been worn out – and not 'a bit tired' before the Chiricahua attacked them, bound them – and made them walk all night long in the desert at the end of a rope, like captured animals. "Artie?"

Immobile, passed out, Artemus didn't react. Jim tugged on his rope and the Indian holding it dropped it to the ground. He struggled in the bindings for a few seconds before he realized it was useless. Hs wrists still bound behind his back, he crouched beside his partner curled on his side, his back to the river, his face pale and still. "Artemus? Eh, buddy?"

Red Knife kicked Artie's leg, hard. "Wake up!"

But Artemus didn't.

The Chiricahua warrior frowned, upset. "Wake him!" he commanded Jim. "We have to leave. Wake him before I hurt him." he added, his voice now low and dangerous.

Unable to use his hands, Jim had no other choice but to use his elbow to rub his best friend's face, severely flushed and covered in sweat, gently but firmly and Artemus responded with a groan. "Wake up Artie, wake up! We have to go."

Slowly, very slowly, Artemus's sunken eyes fluttered open. 'M'awake," he slurred. He struggled to just get to his knees and managed to pull himself upright, after three failed attempts. Once he was in a sitting position, his head bowed forward, his eyes closing shut again.

Red Knife was losing patience and he suddenly kicked Artie again, in his ribs this time. Artemus grunted in pain and re-opened his eyes. 'M'awake, ow! Stop! Hurts…" He blinked wearily and kept blinking trying to stay awake, looking at Jim in confusion. "Wha…?"

Standing, Jim somehow helped his partner to get on his feet and held him tight against him. He gave Red Knife a black look. "He's awake now," he said.

Nodding Artie yawned, leaning against Jim's shoulder so he wouldn't fall over and managed to stay standing. "I'm awake, yes."

Furrowing his clammy brow, he recognized Red Knife. He remembered what had happened and glared at the chief of the Chokonen-Chiricahua warriors. "Don't hit me again," he threatened.

Red Knife pushed Jim to one side, hard, and invaded Artemus's personal space. "Or what? You couldn't fight against a fly, White Cheyenne." He grabbed the noose and pulled, choking the white man.

Suffocating, Artemus tried to push Red Knife back, but it only resulted in him tightening the noose around his neck.

He glared at the Indian – refusing to give in to fear.

Seeing this Jim stood and moved toward Red Knife but he was suddenly pulled backward by a warrior and fell on his back, hard, the noose strangling him too.

He struggled to stand but froze when the sharp tip of spear met his Adam's apple and a second one landed on his stomach. His voice hoarse, he said, "Let him go! Don't do that! Don't kill him! A dead hostage has no value. Think about it."

Red Knife tightened the noose again. He was completely cutting off his prisoner's air passage, enjoying Artie's choked whimpers.

But he couldn't read what he expected to see in the White Cheyenne's eyes clouded with pain: fear and utter panic.

He could only see resistance.

Rapidly Artemus's vision blurred. He was slowly losing consciousness. He couldn't breathe, his muscles were going limp on him, and his eyes began to close.

Feeling totally helpless Jim said, "Please, let him go!"

Finally Red Knife loosened the noose and dropped the rope to the floor. Arte immediately crumpled to the ground in a heap.

He had lost all his strength.

Red Knife kicked Artie on his side, eliciting a muted groan from him. "Rest White Cheyenne, but not too long. We have to move ahead." Then he joined the other warriors.

Moaning Artemus felt a wave of nausea wash over him, and rolled to the side to retch on the warm sand. Then, he closed his eyes and consciousness gave way to complete darkness.

But Artemus was roughly awakened five minutes later, Red Knife kicking his leg. He was so totally exhausted and hurting, that he couldn't keep his eyes open.

Upset, the leader of the Apache took his knife and placed the sharp edge on Jim's throat. "Do what I command; or I'll cut his throat." He slowly sliced the side of his prisoner's neck and a bead of blood immediately appeared and rolled down.

Glaring at Red Knife Artie nodded. He knew that the warrior would do it without hesitation. "I will comply," he croaked.

He levered himself up on his knees and then managed to pull himself upright, on his feet, swaying on unsteady legs. "Lead the way," he said, chin raised defiantly.

WWW

 _Much later_

It was almost noon. The oppressive heat rolled over the Sonoran desert, the landscape – a wasteland of stone and sun-bleached sand - melting under the scorching sun, when the Chokonen-Chiricahua warriors and their prisoners halted, next to a group of bushes surrounding a pond.

Big rounded rocks formed a circle a little further. There was a lone tree in the middle, its trunk twisted, its thin branches barely making shade.

Exhausted, their mouths dry, their lips cracked, very thirsty and dehydrated, Jim and Artie staggered up to the waterhole and sank their knees in the sand before lowering their heads toward the tepid water.

Red Knife stopped them before they could drink a single drop, using the ropes to drag them toward the solitary tree, where he tied them to it.

He gave a dominating smirk and then joined his men watering the horses.

Looking at Artie, sitting beside him, Jim saw how much his partner was suffering. His sunburnt face was a grimace of pain. "We have to escape," he said.

Closing his eyes, Artemus rasped, "You have to escape, Jim, I can't. I would be dead of exhaustion by tomorrow, I'm sure."

Frowning, upset, Jim said, "We have had this discussion dozens of times. I will not leave you, Artemus, that's not an option. Forget it. We will escape together."

Opening dull, bloodshot and glassy eyes, Artie half-smiled. "You know, the first Egyptians buried their dead in the desert. The dry sand and heat protected them... then they discovered mummification, it was more elaborate but the results were the same. You will recover my body in the desert, dried, but intact, preserved, and you will offer me a decent burial – a last one. You will find my will in the drawer of my writing table in my compartment. I don't have much time…"

Shooting a black look at his best friend Jim groaned angrily. "You're not going to die! We're going to escape, together," he said firmly.

Resigned, Artie shook his head. "No, I'm going to die. I know." He sighed. "Forget what I told you about my body being preserved by the desert. The Apache probably won't bury me. They will leave my body on the ground, somewhere. When you come back… nothing will be left of it. Coyotes and winged scavengers will have eaten me whole… you will bury an empty coffin – again, but this time, I'd be really dead and wouldn't be able to do my own eulogy disguised as a priest." He showed a tired smile. "That was fun, it was one of my favorite disguises and roles…"

Hearing that last sentence, Jim angrily gritted his teeth, hard enough to make his jaw ache. Then he glared at Artie and groaned, "Shut up Artemus!" Then he instantly regretted what he had just said. His eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Artie. It's not you talking, but exhaustion. The Artemus Gordon I know, my partner and the Indian warrior, would not give up, he would fight to live. He would escape with me."

Red Knife and a warrior moved toward them, holding a water bag. They both stopped in front of Jim and the leader of the Indians just commanded, "Open your mouth!"

Jim obeyed and drank the tepid water with an immense pleasure and relief. Then he saw Red Knife grab the water bag and pour a little water on Artemus's face – and not in his mouth. He groaned and balled his hands into fists angrily. "Why are you so vindictive with him?"

Red Knife shot a black look at Artie with a disdainful snort. "Because he's a liar. He's not a warrior because a warrior can resist anything. He lied about the marks on his back too. No white man can be marked by the eagle, messenger of the Great Spirit. That's why."

Taking Artemus's defense, Jim said, "Artemus was prisoner of bandits for three days before you captured us. He didn't eat or drink in those three days. He was already very weak when you put a rope around his neck, pulling him beside your horse like a captured animal. That's why, he's so exhausted. And those marks on his back are real. And if you continue to hurt him, you will see an eagle flying in the sky – envoy of the Great Spirit – sign that it will intervene… somehow, to protect him. And it will be too late for you…"

Red Knife sniggered. "I'm not scared. The Great Spirit is pleased by what I'm doing." Suddenly he grabbed a handful of Artie's sweat soaked hair and added, "You're just a weak white man!" Then he released Artemus and moved back. "We'll leave in a short time. Take some rest while you can."

Red Knife headed toward the other warriors sitting beside the waterhole, followed by the man that accompanied him.

Closing his eyes again, Artie breathed, "He, he's go-going t' kill me," he slurred. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

WWW

 _Much later_

It was the middle of the afternoon. The heat was hellish. But it won't last, Jim thought. Big white clouds with a tinge of dark gray at their base had been building on the horizon since the end of the morning. A storm was coming.

He looked at his partner just to see him sinkto his knees on the ground covered with sharp pebbles, hurting his knees, again. He let out a whimper, started to slip sideways and collapsed on his side, passed out, breathing shallowly.

Immediately Jim moved toward his fallen partner and knelt beside him. "Artie!' Blood froze in his veins. He looked dead.

At the same time Red Knife stopped his horse and slid off his mount, still holding in his hand the rope restraining the older white man.

He pulled on the rope sharply, lifting Artemus upper body from the ground and strangling him in the process. "I didn't say to stop! Wake up!"

But the older agent remained unresponsive.

The leader of the Chokonen-Chiricahua warriors took his knife and cut the rope, loosening the noose around Artie's angry-red-scraped neck. "He's dying."

Helpless Jim lowered his head to Artie's face and his brow met his best friend's. "Don't die Artie, please, please, no, no…" He squeaked out of his raw throat, fighting to keep his tears away. He looked up at Red Knife, glaring at him. "Release me; he's like a brother to me. I want to hold him in my arms."

Red Knife shook his head. He knelt beside Artemus and grabbed a handful of his hair. Then, he moved his knife to Artemus's scalp.

Horrified, Jim threw himself at the Indian, but Red Knife pushed him back easily, with a hard kick in his chest eliciting a grunt from the agent. "No. See? He's a liar. He's no Cheyenne warrior. The Great Spirit's not protecting him." He placed the sharp blade against the top of Artie's forehead and a small trickle of blood dribbled down his forehead, coming out of a shallow cut. "I'm going to take his scalp, then I'll kill him. We'll see if the Great Spirit is protecting him…"

Doing what he could to avoid what was going to happen, Jim suddenly kicked the Indian's legs, sending him tumbling back. "Let him die in peace!"

Red Knife suddenly heard a collective gasp of surprise coming from his men, immediately followed by the high, shrill call of an eagle. Everyone looked up to see an eagle making large circles above them – except a still unconscious Artemus.

Suddenly Jim and the Indians saw other things flying in the sky: arrows.

In seconds they hit their targets: the Chiricahua Apaches. They collapsed to the ground, dead, except one, Red Knife, who was hit in his shoulder.

Red Knife stumbled backward, wincing, and broke the shaft, his breath hissing out between his teeth. He grabbed his knife, ready to fight his enemies.

He was rapidly surrounded by a group of a dozen other Indians, holding bows and arrows – warriors led by a massive man built like a horse, all muscle and mass, his arms and chest tattooed with geometric designs. He was wearing only a leather belt with a breechcloth.

Stunned Jim couldn't believe his eyes. "What? Silver Cloud? Is that you?" he asked, recognizing the Comanche warrior.

The eagle let out short calls, circled twice around the men below and then headed toward the immense deep blue sky.

Silver Cloud smiled. "Yes, it's me. I finally found you – but the Sacred Kwihnai (eagle) helped us, leading us here." Holding a buffalo hide water-bag, he slid off his horse and knelt beside Jim. Using his knife, he cut the rope biding the other man's wrists. Then he touched Artie's throat and said, "He's still alive, take care of him," he added, giving Jim the water bag.

He moved toward Red Knife, still holding his knife, standing in the middle of Comanche braves threatening him with sharp arrows.

Jim watched two Comanche use ropes to tie Red Knife, bleeding, an arrow embedded in his shoulder, to a giant cactus.

Spotting a dark opening between two enormous boulders, large enough to shelter a few men, Jim said, "I found the right place for you to rest, Artie."

He lifted Artemus's limp body in his arms, ignoring his aching limbs and carried his unconscious partner into the dark and relatively cool cave. He gently laid the older man on the sandy ground and divested him of his dusty boots, socks and sweat soaked pants. Then he removed his own sweat drenched clothes to end up in his short white underwear.

Hearing a strangled cry coming from Artie, he moved beside his partner who was moaning, shaking violently and thrashing around. He sat astride the other man's lap and pressed on his sunburnt shoulders to keep him still. "It's alright Artie, it's alright, you're safe," he said.

Eyes fluttering open, Artie sobbed openly. "I'm dead J'm – and you're dead too," he croaked and rolled to the side, hiding his face with trembling hands.

Slowly, gently, Jim pulled Artemus into a sitting position. Holding him tightly against his chest with one hand, he rubbed small circles across the other man's back with the other one in a calming motion. "Shhh… shhh… it's alright Artie, you're safe, you're safe."

Blinking slowly, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed, Artie whispered, "M' not dead?"

Cupping Artie's dirty and stubbled face, Jim smiled. "No, you're not dead, and I'm not dead either, and you're safe. We're both safe."

Immensely relieved Artemus wrapped his arms around Jim's waist, resting his head against the younger man's chest. "What h'ppened?" he slurred.

Holding the water-bag, Jim pressed the tip against Artie's chapped lips. "Later, first you need to drink Artie, you're dehydrated. The water's not really cold, but it will have to do."

Tilting his head back, Artie took a sip, relishing the lukewarm water. Then he took a second sip, closing his eyes in bliss as the water eased down his parched throat. "Thank you," he said, with a smile, pushing the water-bag toward his partner. "Your turn."

Placing the tip of the water-bag against his own dry and cracked lips, Jim took small sips, enjoying the feeling of the tepid water trickle in his throat. It was heavenly! He thought. When he had had his fill, he gave the water-bag to Artie, "Drink buddy," he croaked, and watched as Artemus took another drink of water, then several more, greedily gulping down the water.

Once the water-skin was empty, Artie dropped it to the sandy ground, he closed his eyes with a moan. "That feels so good," he rasped.

Feeling much better, but weak like a newborn kitten, Jim slid his tongue over his wet lips and rested his sweat-soaked forehead against Artie's. "Your friends the Comanche saved us, Artie. Silver Cloud is here, with a few warriors," he told the older man. "We're safe."

Surprised Artie pulled back and groaned as his entire body ached. He blinked twice. "Wha…?"

Silver Cloud entered the cave at that precise instant. "Strong Bear!" He said, with a grin. He knelt beside Artie and grabbed his shoulders, before hugging him tightly. Then, moving back, he said, "It's good to see you. I came as fast as I could, but when I saw the eagle flying high in the sky, leading us here, I knew that I would arrive to save you, just in time – Executing the Big Father's will (a/n: Creator god, most commonly identified with the sun) to protect you."

Resting his head against the Comanche's broad shoulder, Artie closed his eyes, beyond exhausted. "Mmm… okay… sleep," then he went limp.

WWW

 _Much later_

The leader of the Comanche warriors looked outside and caught a flash of lightning in the sky getting darker and darker every second.

Big, fat, menacing clouds, the shade of ash, heavy with the threat of rain were coming in fast. "A thunderstorm is approaching quickly," Silver Cloud said as the loud rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. "The Big Father is very angered. It doesn't like it when warriors are fighting and killing each other instead of living in peace together. But we had no other choice but to kill those Apaches. That Apache warrior tried to kill Strong Bear, a warrior it is protecting," he added.

Goosebumps appearing on his arms, Jim nodded and shivered, realizing that the temperature had dropped significantly. "Thunderstorms are pretty rare in the Sonoran Desert, very exceptional… Fortunately we have a cave to shelter us from the storm."

Silver Cloud turned around and looked down at Artemus, laid on his bedroll, sleeping like one dead, wrapped in a blanket with Jim sitting beside him, cross-legged, holding his limp hand.

Lightning flashed across the sky and soon after there was a loud rolling rumble of thunder. "We're safe here," Silver Cloud added. He frowned hearing the horses nickering restlessly, but they were solidly tied to a Joshua tree (as the whites called it) outside. They won't go anywhere, he thought.

He moved toward the two white men, lowered himself to the sandy ground, crossed his legs and meeting Jim's eyes, reflecting intense curiosity, he asked, "You probably are wondering why we came here?"

Pressing Artie's hand Jim glanced at his worn out partner. He was still sound asleep, oblivious to the coming thunderstorm. He looked at Silver Cloud then. "Yes I am. That was unexpected to say the least, and I'm glad you showed up. You saved us."

Silver Cloud nodded. "Red Crow had a vision five days ago. He saw a bear with a rope around his neck, fighting against an unidentified captor, struggling to free itself…"

Jim nodded, "Artemus trying to free himself from the rope that Red Knife the Apache had looped around his neck," he explained.

Silver Cloud nodded and continued, "Red Crow saw a knife with blood on the blade… I know now it represented that Apache's name."

The Comanche added, "He saw an eagle flying above the bear. Then he saw war paints and recognized them: they belonged to Chiricahua-Apaches. Strong Bear was in grave danger and Apaches kept him prisoner." He placed a hand on Artemus's arm and pressed it. "I immediately left the settlement with six of my warriors to find Strong Bear… But we didn't know where you were. Hours later an eagle appeared in the sky – and we followed the Sacred Kwihnai. And it led us here… and we arrived before Strong Bear was killed. The Big Father saved him, using us."

Rubbing his drawn and stubbled face, Jim nodded. "That Apache wanted to scalp Artie…" He pressed Artemus's hand in his. "But he's safe now."

Silver Cloud nodded. "Tell me what happened."

Fighting against sleep, Jim told the Comanche what had happened from the start, then, he yawned and lay down on his own bedroll, still holding his partner's limp hand.

Suddenly a flash of lightning clapped violently and shattered the dark sky and thunder rumbled loudly. Silver Cloud nodded and said, the Big Father is _very_ angry."

But Jim didn't hear it. He was fast asleep.

WWW

 _Much later_

Suddenly a brilliant white flash of lightning lit up the cave for a moment and loud thunder followed only a few seconds after it, waking Jim with a start. He pulled himself into a sitting position and looked around him, both confused and disoriented. "Wha…?" He breathed out.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and spotted Silver Cloud and his warriors sitting next to a fire, close to the entrance, so that the smoke could go outside, and then he looked down at Artemus sleeping and snoring at his side and he remembered everything in a split second.

He joined the Comanche warriors and glanced outside at the sky. It was so black, so dark that he could barely see the gray veil of the pouring rain falling steadily in the desert, drumming on the ground.

Suddenly a bolt of lightning shooting across the starless sky interrupted him, followed closely but a huge thunderclap.

Silver Cloud reached out offering Jim a skewer (a branch) of grilled meat. "Eat, you need your strength back. We have a long way ahead of us."

Looking suspiciously at the grilled meat, Jim asked, "Let me guess, lizard."

The big powerful Comanche leader shook his head. "No, it's rattlesnake. We killed a lot of them on our way here, for food. It's delicious, but if you prefer lizards, Jim, you will have to wait. With that rain, lizards are well-hidden and it's impossible to hunt."

Jim shrugged. "Okay. I ate rattlesnake before. What do you mean we have a long way ahead of us? Phoenix is not that far, about two days on horseback."

Looking down at Artemus, still plunged in deep slumber, Silver Cloud said, "He's not going to head toward Phoenix, but come to live with us, the Comanche. After what happened, Strong Bear needs to rest among his band. He will rest in the settlement, surrounded by his friends, away from the tumult of the life of the white men. Then, once ready, he'll go back to his life as a white man, but not before."

Another clash of lightning flashed across the blackened sky and new crashes of thunder resounded in the Sonoran desert.

Looking at Artemus again, Jim shook his head. "After what happened with those Apaches, and don't take it personally, he needs to stay away from Indians for a while. He's coming with me to Phoenix. Don't worry; I will take care of him." He took a piece of grilled snake and put it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. "You're right, it's delicious."

Suddenly there was a huge flash of white on the horizon revealing it for a split second as the first bolt of lightning hit. Outside the rain fell harder.

WWW

 _Much later_

Silver Cloud looked at Artemus from head to toe, frowning. The white man, half-awake was blinking sleep away, or trying to and losing, and he was dirty and smelly. "Take off your underwear," he commanded. Then, as Strong Bear didn't react, he used his knife to slice at the other man's short underwear, transforming them into black fabric straps.

Leaving Artie in the nude.

Shivering, Artemus hid his gentleman's parts with trembling hands. "I feel naked," he slurred as he turned slightly pink.

Jim chuckled. "Because you are, Artie." Then he grinned.

Silver Cloud took a step back, surveying Artemus's body with a frown of concern, noticing the bruises and scrapes covering his body and the angry rope burns around the other man's neck. He was sunburnt and his wrists were bandaged too. "You're hurt," he said.

Glancing at his bandaged wrists, Artemus nodded. "It's nothing…" Then he groaned in protest when Silver Cloud propelled him outside, steering him under the deluge.

They were both soaked to the skin in seconds and they shuddered violently. The thunder was gone but it still rained a torrential downpour pounding down on the desert sand, and the air was cold, colder than even night here usually was.

Grimacing, his teeth chattering, Artie let out, "S-s'cold, and wet."

Soaked through and through Silver Cloud nodded. "Yes, that's the definition of the rain, it's cold and wet." He grabbed Artie's arm as the other man headed toward the cave, stopping him. "Come with me."

He brought Artemus near to a large boulder forming some kind of T, sculpted by the wind and sand over many, many years, on which the rain accumulated in a basin at the top. Water was pouring down to the ground, forming a natural shower.

He pushed Artie below the mini-waterfall and said, "Don't move!"

Struggling to stay awake, Artie complied, the command cutting straight past the fog of exhaustion numbing his brain. "S-s'cold and-and wet," he repeated, closing his eyes, raindrops dripping from his eyelashes. "There's no soap."

Silver Cloud joined the other man and started rubbing Artie's goosebumps-covered skin, getting rid of the grime there.

Once Artie was clean, the Comanche warrior took a step back, surveying again Strong Bear's battered body, being satisfied with the result.

Artie's head dropped on his chest, cold water pounding on top of him relentlessly, instantly asleep. He collapsed in Silver Cloud's arms.

WWW

 _Hours later_

Smiling Jim looked at his best friend. The other man was dressed in Comanche clothes: a breechcloth and loose-fitting deerskin leggings, and moccasins, but he was naked from the waist up. "You don't look like a drowned cat anymore, that's good! You know, the last time I saw you in that outfit, your upper body was painted with black stripes in order to camouflage you in the night."

Smiling too Artemus nodded. "Yes, I remember. I looked great!" As I didn't have any spare clothes, Silver Cloud offered me these. I feel like Strong Bear again."

Silver Cloud pulled on the flaps hanging down in front and back and Artemus gasped. "Easy my friend, that part of my anatomy is delicate here…" he said.

Smiling Silver smiled too and said, "I know. You look more presentable now." He handed Artie a knife who slid it in his beaded belt holding his loincloth in place. "You never stopped being Strong Bear. You are Strong Bear and you always will be. The Big Father decided it."

Artemus pressed Silver Cloud's broad shoulder with affection and said, "Thank you very much Silver Cloud, without your help, I'd be long dead by now. You saved Jim and me."

Silver Cloud removed one of his necklaces of colored beads and put it around Artemus's neck. "You're welcome, Strong Bear."

Touching it, Artie said, "I look a little more like a Comanche, thanks. But I have my hair too short, a three-day stubble, and my skin is white... er… rather more like cooked-lobster-red actually. I have a fair skin and it burns rapidly – before eventually tanning." He chuckled. "Thank you for the necklace, I like it." He headed toward the entrance of the cave and looked at Red Knife, tied up to the saguaro cactus. "I know that he tried to kill me, and scalp me before that, but… we can't let him die." He glanced at Silver Cloud, then stared at the Chiricahua Apache again. "Release him, give him his horse and let him go."

Silver Cloud turned toward one of his warriors and gave an order in his language. The other man immediately left the cave.

A few minutes later the three men watched Red Knife jump on his horse, soaked with both rain and blood. Looking at Artemus, he bowed his head in respect, then kicked his horse into motion.

Silver Cloud placed a hand on Artie's shoulder. "You're too generous, that's one of your more endearing qualities, my friend. He didn't deserve that you spare him. But he'll respect you now, Strong Bear. You are no longer enemies."

Artemus nodded. "It's good to have fewer enemies."

Finally the thunderstorm started to ease up, the loud rumbles getting quieter and the flash of lightning becoming less powerful. Blue sky re-appeared as if by magic.

Jim nodded. "Time to leave," he said.

WWW

 _Present_

The thunder echoed through the Oval Office, breaking the noise of rain hitting the windows, and Artemus paused his story. He gave a weary sigh.

Looking down at the steaming cup of coffee that the President had just placed in his hand Artemus added, "We were two days away from the Comanche settlement when we were attacked, at nightfall. Daniel Danford, and his posse wanted to kill a group of Chiricahua Apaches that had raided the settlers' ranches and stolen cattle… but they made a mistake which led to a series of dreadful events…" He stopped, feeling his chest burn. "But instead of the Apaches, they attacked Silver Cloud and his Comanche warriors – thinking that Jim and I were prisoners of the Indians."

He looked at the man who had just sat on the chair next to him and was looking at him with compassionate eyes and he felt tears well up. "I already wrote that in my report… You have many things to attend to… I won't take up any more of your time, Sir."

He stood but sat down again a few seconds later when Grant pointed at the chair and commanded, "Please, sit down, Artemus!"

Embarrassed, Artie let out, "Yes Mr. President." He sighed and said, "A bullet grazed my head, and I fell of my horse. I hit my head hard on a rock. Silver Cloud managed to pick me up, and we fled," he said. He paused and added, "When I woke up, I wasn't Artemus Gordon anymore but a Comanche warrior called Strong Bear. I had a 'selective amnesia'… the only thing I remembered was my life as a Comanche and the Comanche language." His hand trembling he took a sip of coffee.

Grant sighed. "I'm sorry, Artemus, I'm so sorry about what happened to the Comanche and to you." He took the other man's free hand to show his sympathy and concern for the man he loved like his own son - and gasped in shock when Artie's whole body went rigid, his posture tensing then jerked and he let out a cry of surprise when Artemus, his eyes black with anger, suddenly pushed him back, with force as he tried to move away from him. He collapsed heavily to the carpeted floor.

Moving up on to his feet in a flash, stomach churning, Artemus growled like a bear and pulled out a knife from his back, threatening the President with it. His entire body was shaking. "You're not going to hurt me anymore!' he said. He felt as if his throat were closing up and started to gasp for breath and, suddenly covered in sweat, he choked out, stumbling backward. He had to get away now before being tortured again. "Can't… breathe… " He threw fearful, worried glances over his shoulder, hyperventilating. "Nee-need to escape…"

Raising a hand in a gesture of appeasement, Grant realized that touching Artemus had triggered an immediate and uncontrollable reaction. He had lost grasp of reality and was back in the past, in the hands of Lowell's men torturing him.

He was having a panic attack.

He moved on one knee, slowly, his hands raised above his head, not wanting to frighten the other man more than he already was. "It's alright, Artemus, calm down, calm down. Take deep breaths. I need you to breathe for me, Artemus, nice and calm. You're not with Lowell's men anymore. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore. You aren't there. You're here with me, safe, in the White House."

Taking a couple of steps back, Artemus growled, baring his teeth as if he was a trapped animal. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" he said, struggling to breathe through the rising panic, tears streaming down his face. "Ever! Or I'm going to kill you." His voice was harsh and gravelly with rage.

Then he ran toward the door and left the room shortly after.

The President followed him into the corridor, but didn't pursue him. He stopped beside the soldier standing there incredulous. "I want to see Colonel Richmond and Dr. Henderson – now!"

The man saluted, "Yes, Mr. President."

Tbc.


	3. Act Two

**THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT TWO**

 _Much later_

 _On board the Wanderer_

Stunned. Jim opened his eyes wide. "He did what?"

Colonel Richmond repeated. "He threatened the President with a knife. He assaulted him." He had just said that when another earsplitting crack of thunder made everyone jump. He sighed and said, "The rain is never going to end…"

Shaking his head in disbelief, the younger agent said, "Artie didn't tell me anything. He didn't tell me a single word at all. He just headed toward his lab… and I wasn't surprised. He does that when he has a new invention in mind."

Concerned, the head of the Secret Service glanced at the two bulky men wearing long white jackets and at a deeply worried Dr. Henderson accompanying them. "He has lost control of himself, Jim, he's mentally unstable. He needs help, medical help."

Dr. Henderson nodded. "He had an outburst of anger; it's one of the symptoms of the mental disorder affecting him. I'm going to take him to a mental asylum…"

This time Jim was aghast. "You want to lock him in a padded cell? He's not crazy! He's just very tired and overwrought."

Stephen Henderson shook his head. "No, it's more serious. He's suffering from a mental disorder after he was exposed to that tragic and traumatic event. The President told me what happened. I'm not a specialist in that kind of mental disease, but I know an someone who is, Dr. Masterson of the Saint Martin's mental asylum. He will help him. He needs to be there, he needs to heal. Where is he?"

Placing himself in the way to the end of the car, Jim said, "I can take care of him. Do that to him, and we will lose him for good." He opened the drawer of the sideboard and pulled out a gun. He immediately pointed it at the four men. "He's not going anywhere with you. Leave!"

Richmond frowned, upset. "Don't do that, Jim. Stand down, that's an order."

His eyes cold, jaw clenched in determination, Jim shook his head. "No, I'm not going to obey that order, Colonel. Leave, all of you, before my trigger finger gets itchy… and that's not a suggestion."

Dr. Henderson sighed. "I know that you would do anything to protect your partner, even sacrifice your life for him, but that kind of mental disease can lead to acute depression and… eventually suicide. If you want to save your partner, let me take him with me."

Jim shook his head again. "No. He stays here, with me." He cocked the hammer of his Colt. "Leave my train, now. I won't repeat it. Good day, gentlemen."

Colonel Richmond shook his head too. "You won't get far," he said guessing what Jim had in mind. "You will end up in a cell, under arrest for insubordination and Artemus will be under medical surveillance in a room at the WMH – whether you like it or not."

Sure of himself Jim smiled. "Never."

WWW

 _Later_

 _On board the Wanderer, leaving Washington at top speed_

Holding a cup of coffee, Jim sat on the floor, beside Artemus. The rain pounded heavily against the windows of the lab car. "I prepared coffee for y…." He was interrupted by the lightning lighting the dimly laboratory up. Then the thunder rumbled.

His best friend was sitting on the floor in a corner of his lab, knees close to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes were glassy and he was staring at nothing.

Marmalade, AG and Aztec were sitting at his side, staring at him. Immobile. Worried.

He smiled. "I know, my coffee is not as good as yours, and you hate it, but it's all I have to offer." He handed the cup to Artie but the older man didn't move or say a word. He didn't look at him either, his eyes unfocused still staring at the floor. He added, "We're going to Mexico, I always wanted to settle down there, it's always sunny and hot. There's no rain and cold there… The people are friendly, the women high-spirited and beautiful … We'll live together in a hacienda, breeding horses…"

Blinking slowly, Artie whispered, "They will stop us before we can even leave the District and you know that… I should have died with my friends…" His face crumpled. He shrank into himself, his shoulders hunching as he remembered everything. The gunshots, the cries of terror, of pain, the horses' neighings, the smell of blood, all those dead, his friends, the children. Then the pain, the emptiness, the sorrow…

He fought down the urge to gag.

Placing the cup beside him, on the floor Jim said, "Don't say that. There's a reason why you didn't die, it's because you have many, many things to do before passing away and you won't die for many, many years. It wasn't your time, Artemus."

Suddenly the Wanderer brutally braked before progressively slowing down. Jim stood and unholstered his gun – ready to fire. "I won't let them take you," he growled.

Shaking his head Artie said, "No, don't do anything. I don't want them to arrest you and put you in prison before being court-martialed for having helped me, Jim. It would be the end of your career… You'll have a new partner, still be James West the famous special agent of the President." He slowly pushed himself to his feet and then opened the drawer of his long work table, pulling out a gun.

He cocked the hammer.

Blanching, Jim said, "No! Don't do that!" Then he leaped toward his best friend and froze when Artie pointed his Colt at him.

Crying openly now, tears running down his gaunt cheeks, Artemus took a step back. "I wrote a letter for my mom and Harry, and one for the President, and there's one for you too. They are in that drawer… I'm sorry." He took another step back. "You will take care of my cats…" He took another step back. "Turn around. Please. I don't want you to see this…"

Shaking his head, Jim said, "Don't do that Artie… please. I'm sure there's a solution, but not this one. Put your gun on the table."

Instead, Atrtie placed the muzzle against his temple. "Turn around Jim." His finger had tensed on the pistol's trigger. " _Farewell, sweet playfellow."(_ *) Then he was distracted by Aztec climbing up his leg, meowing in distress. He lowered his eyes and breathed out, "Cats are so perceptive, she knows how I feel…"

It gave Jim the opportunity to activate the mechanism propelling the Remington Double Derringer and his 'sleeve gun' ended up in his hand.

He didn't hesitate to fire, scaring the cat and hurting Artie's hand superficially, forcing him to drop his revolver, and in a flash he was at his suicidal partner's side, placing the barrel against his chin. "Listen to me, buddy, I'm sure there's a way out of this story…" Then he lowered his small gun.

Too exhausted to even process a single thought, Artie slumped on a stool, feeling dizzy with exhaustion, his arms and legs like lead.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, sobbing.

Sitting on a second stool beside his partner Jim said, "We could use the help of the Great Spirit now, I wouldn't turn it down."

Sitting there, they waited to be arrested, in silence.

Once the train was stopped, he heard voices on board, people running. Shortly after the door of the lab opened and… two tall, large men appeared, framing a smaller one, Miguelito Loveless. The three men wore drenched hats and long coats.

Loveless beamed and said, "It's a pleasure to see you again, gentlemen. I'd like to discuss the good old days with you, but time is short. A detachment of cavalry is waiting for you at the next station. They have blocked the rail track with railway sleepers. We have to leave at once."

Pointing his gun at the diminutive man Jim frowned, intrigued. "Why are you doing this Loveless? Helping us… and how do you know what's happening?"

Loveless stamped the floor nervously. "Later! For now we have to leave. If you want to help your partner, follow us, now."

Jim holstered his gun.

WWW

 _Later_

Once inside Loveless's carriage, Jim looked down at his partner. Artemus was curled in a ball at his side, his head resting on his lap.

Utterly exhausted he had finally sunk into a deep sleep.

Looking at Loveless then, he asked again, "Why are you doing this Loveless? Helping us… and how do you know what's happening?"

Loveless grinned. "My dear Mr. West, everything related to James West and Artemus Gordon interests me greatly. I have ears in Washington, as in the whole country…" He stopped, flinching at the next deafening clash of thunder. "I really hate thunderstorms and rain. Because of the humidity, my joints hurt…" He paused and continued, "When I heard that the two of you were on the run, running away from the Secret Service and the Army, like the worst criminals, that you were fugitives, I immediately thought, 'I have to help them if I want to kill them later, slowly, with great pleasure'… And voilà. You're safe with me – until we meet again."

Frowning Jim said, "You won't recruit us, Loveless, don't even think about it."

Loveless chuckled. "It's not my intention to, Mr. West. I enjoy too much playing cat and mouse with you and your partner. No, I save you now to be able to kill you later. I do this with a purely self-interested purpose, to help my fellow man is for me a defect and not a quality." He looked at Artemus curled up on the opposite seat, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the moving landscape outside through the window. "Speaking of partner, Mr. Gordon, he looks like he went to hell and came back… transformed."

Jim nodded. "It's a long story."

Loveless smiled. "We have a long road ahead of us… Tell me the whole story."

WWW

 _Later_

The carriage stopped next to a railroad – where a train was stationed in the middle of nowhere. The three men left the vehicle.

Loveless raised a hand. "This is my train, gentlemen. It's now yours. It's as comfortable as the Wanderer and it possess a stable car too, with two horses. It will take you wherever you want to go." He looked up at Artemus who was fighting to stay awake. "I think you should go to the Indian Territory. Mr. Gordon will be safe there among his friends. When he feels better, he'll come back to Washington, and President Grant will greet him arms wide open, forgiving him – he's like a father to him, and he'll forgive you too, of course, you did what was necessary to protect your partner. To be loyal and devoted to someone, are two great qualities. And you and I, we will meet again."

Jim nodded. "I would never have thought of saying this, but thank you." Then, holding Artie against him, he headed toward the rear platform.

WWW

 _Four days later,_

 _Indian Territory_

 _Cheyenne territory_

Holding the reins of Artemus's horse American Knife grinned. "White Eagle! It's good to see you again, brother!" But his broad smile of joy vanished from his lips as he saw that Artemus's face was pale, hollowed, with dark circles around his eyes. He had lost weight and didn't look healthy at all – and he frowned in concern, and was even more concerned when the other man sagged in his saddle and slid to one side. He caught him in his arms before he fell from his mount.

Holding a passed out Artie in his arms, the Cheyenne addressed an interrogative look at Jim, dismounting his horse. "What happened?"

Jim sighed. "It's a long story. Artemus needs help, American Knife."

Coming around, Artie whispered, "Put me down." And the Cheyenne complied.

Stumbling on shaky legs, Artemus shed his clothing quickly – all his clothes and shoes. Then he picked up the pile and very wobbily started to walk away toward the fire around which were gathered a few warriors, very surprised to see White Eagle, and also, to see the other man throw his clothes and shoes into the flames a few seconds later.

Then, when they all had disappeared, turned into ash, Artemus said, in Comanche language, "I'm Strong Bear!" Artemus Gordon is dead." He toppled to his side with a harsh grunt and passed out.

But he was the only one to speak Comanche, so not James West nor American Knife understood what he had just said.

WWW

 _Later_

 _Under American Knife's tepee_

Once Artemus was laying on a nest of buffalo furs, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping soundly, Jim told American Knife what had happened to his best friend.

Frowning in deep concern, American Knife stared at his blood-brother, now wearing a breechcloth and nothing else, a blanket folded on his lap. "The first thing he did was to burn his white man's clothes," he said. "Do you know what it means Jim?"

Sitting cross-legged on the other side of the fire, Jim nodded. "Yes, I think so. He's reverting to being Strong Bear, the Comanche he was for six months." He saw the medicine man nod in agreement. "Probably because he doesn't want to be a white man anymore – horrified and disgusted by what Lowell's men did to Yellow Arrow's band – and then to him. He's still deeply shocked and traumatized by what happened. He barely eats, he has horrible nightmares and he barely sleeps. His eyes lose focus from time to time and he cries, 'reliving' the massacre. I'd like to help him but I don't know how."

Placing a hand on Artie's throat, on the pulse point, the Medicine Man nodded. "I knew that he had spent a long time with the Comanche with no recollection of who he was… living like one of them. But I didn't know what had happened after he was captured by Lowell's men. That's horrible and I'm not surprised he is showing this kind of behavior after what he went through."

Intrigued Jim lifted an eyebrow. "How did you know about Artie's stay with the Comanche?"

Looking at Artemus again, who was now lightly snoring the Cheyenne replied "Silver Cloud and a fistful of his warriors told the whole story during our last inter-tribes powwows. I was shaken to hear what happened to White Eagle – I mean to Artemus. But like Silver Cloud, I knew that he couldn't be dead, the Great Spirit protects him, and we were both right."

Looking at Artie too, Jim said, "Dr. Henderson thinks Artie's suffering from a mental disorder after he was exposed to that tragic and traumatic event." He looked at the medicine man, full of hope. "Help him, American Knife, please." He hesitated then took Artie's hand in his. "He can't bear to be touched," I think it has something to do with the fact that Lowell's men humiliated him… The loss of his 'long Indian hair' is a sensitive subject…" he added.

The Medicine Man sighed. "Cheyenne and Comanche, and other tribes, are proud of their hair, symbol of strength and maleness. When you cut a warrior's hair, you humiliate him, and symbolically, you divest him of his strength and emasculate him. " He added a fistful of branches in the fire and continued, "I was a young warrior when the Sandy Creek massacre occurred. I heard about it of course, all the Cheyenne heard about it. I met people who were afflicted the same way White Eagle is after the massacre. They had lost people they loved, saw them being sabered, mutilated… a few of them mourned their loved ones, accepted their death, but others couldn't, wouldn't. Driven by vengeance, they died, fighting white men."

Lowering his eyes to Artemus, Jim nodded. "Artemus didn't mourn his Comanche friends, not when he was a prisoner and not since he came back… He even tried to kill himself telling me he should have died with his friends."

Nodding, the Cheyenne said, "So that he White Eagle will feel better, and heal, he must mourn them and accept their deaths."

Pressing Artie's hand in his Jim sighed and said, "We have to find a solution to help him. But I don't know which one, I'm lost."

Placing a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder, American Knife said, "We'll find a solution, I'm sure of it. Now you need to rest, my friend."

Exhausted, mentally and physically by recent events, Jim lay down beside Artemus and said 'thanks' when the Cheyenne placed a blanket on his legs.

He closed his eyes and gave into slumber a few seconds later.

WWW

 _The next morning_

Suddenly the flap closing the opening of the tepee was pushed to the side and Silver Cloud entered. He immediately headed toward Artemus.

Standing in a flash, Jim intercepted him. "What do you want?"

Silver Cloud was surprised. "What do I want? I want to see Strong Bear, James. I thought he was dead! When I heard he was here, I came as soon as I could. Fortunately I was not too far from the Cheyenne territory at the time. I traveled on horseback all night."

He pushed Jim aside like he was a mere fly and knelt beside Artemus, placing a hand on his bare chest. "I knew he wasn't dead… Strong Bear couldn't be dead. The Big Father protects him and the Big Father has sent him here…"

The Medicine Man pushed Silver Cloud's hand back and said, "I know what you're thinking, Silver Cloud. He's not going to go with you."

Silver Cloud looked falsely surprised. "What do you mean?"

The Medicine Man frowned. "You know what I mean, Silver Cloud. It's not difficult to read your mind. Now that Strong Bear is here, you want him to go with you."

Puzzled, Jim furrowed his brow. "What? To go with him? What for?"

Glancing at Artemus now moaning in his sleep, American Knife explained, "Silver Cloud has gathered his warriors and other warriors – Cheyenne and Arapahos – to attack settlers on the border with the Indian Territory, as retaliation for the massacre of Yellow Arrow's band. Now that Artemus is here, he wants him at his side to attack and kill white men… Don't' you? But Artemus won't go with you, Silver Cloud, first because he's himself again in his head and not a Comanche warrior you can command and then because he needs to heal. He was left traumatized by what happened in the Comanche settlement, and the healing process does not include massacring white men."

Silver Cloud clenched his jaw angrily. "You have no right to take that decision for him. He's a Comanche warrior, one of my warriors."

His face impassible, American Knife nodded. "Yes he is, but he's a Cheyenne warrior too – and my blood brother. He's family, and as I am the eldest, he must obey me. That's the tradition. He won't accompany you, Silver Cloud, I forbid it."

Lifting his hand, Jim intervened lips thinned in exasperation. "He's Comanche warrior, yes. He has Cheyenne blood in his veins, yes, but above all, he's Artemus Gordon, my best friend, my partner, a man I love like he was my own brother. And we are blood brothers too. He's the man I would die for. He's in pain, he's lost, and I want him to be okay and I want him back to his usual self, for him, for me. And I need help – your help. Then stop fighting!" Then he looked down at Artie shifting restlessly in his sleep, his breathing growing visibly labored, plagued by a nightmare. "I'm sure there's a way to help him."

Placing a hand on Artemus's forehead covered in a thin layer of sweat, American Knife whispered something in his language – and Artie progressively calmed down. Then he said, in English, "There's only one way to help him, so he can heal. He needs to mourn his loved ones and accept their loss. When he will have done that, he will get better, will become himself again."

Silver Cloud placed his hand on Artemus's shoulder and this time American Knife let him do it. They wouldn't fight anymore. "There's only one way, he has to go back to the Llano Estacado's settlement… or what is left of it. I will accompany you, of course."

Nodding Jim added, "The bodies… were buried." He sighed. "Going there won't be easy. But it's possible. I will leave tomorrow at first light for fort Kendall. I need to send a telegram to the President. I need his authorization to go there with Artemus and both of you."

Tbc.

(*) William Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream."


	4. Act Three

**THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT THREE**

 _Much later_

When Jim came back to the Cheyenne settlement, it was sunset. He entered American Knife's tepee a few minutes later and was pleased to see that Artemus was awake.

Holding a bowl filled with boiled meat, the Medicine Man was trying to force his blood-brother to eat. But Artie, his jaws clenched and arms crossed on his chest, refused.

Smiling, the younger man sat cross-legged beside the fire and beside his best friend, "Hello Artie. How are you buddy?"

Giving Jim a black look, Strong Bear said, "My name is Strong Bear." Then he stood up… but was too weak to stay upright. His legs buckled. He crumpled to the ground. He grabbed a blanket, and ashamed of being as weak as a newborn kitten, he rolled in a ball and covered his face with it. "Leave me alone," he growled through his teeth.

Feeling helpless, American Knife offered the bowl of boiled meat to Jim who took it. "Tell me what happened at the fort, Jim."

Jim chewed a piece of meat and said, "I met Colonel Parker and told him the whole story. After that he threw me in a cell and contacted Washington. He received a telegram one hour later, from Colonel Richmond – the President authorizes us – Artie, Silver Cloud and I – to go to the former Comanche settlement. The Wanderer will transport us to El Paso. We'll take horses from there. He released me from the cell then. We'll leave in two days for Dallas. The train will be here."

Pushing the blanket away from him, Artemus growled. "I'm not going." Then he started to move toward the opening of the tepee, on his knees.

It was easy for American Knife to intercept him and to maneuver him back beside the fire. "Sit! And listen to me!" the Cheyenne commanded in his language. Artemus obeyed reluctantly. "You will go back there. You need it to feel better. You don't have a choice."

Lowering his eyes, Artie swallowed hard and said. "I can't go back there… it's too hard, too painful…" His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Please."

Reaching out a hand toward Artie – but stopping just in time, Jim nodded. "You need to heal Artie, and going there is the only solution. You need to mourn the loved ones and accept their loss. Then, you will feel better. You're the strongest-willed man I know. You're going to get through this, Artie." He handed the bowl of meat to him. "Eat something, please."

Slowly, Artemus turned around, showing his back to the others.

American Knife nodded. "Let's find you some clothes."

WWW

 _Two days later, at night_

 _On board the Wanderer_

Silver Cloud was amazed by the Wanderer. He inspected the train thoroughly, twice, putting hundreds of question to Jim, who was more than happy to play the guide.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed of the state room the warrior asked Jim, "Are you sure I can sleep here? Is it authorized?"

Smiling Jim nodded. "Yes, you can. This compartment is reserved for the guests. If you need anything, I'll be in the next compartment."

The Comanche nodded. "Thank you." Then smiling, he looked around him, exploring.

Closing the door, Jim spotted Marmalade, AG and Aztec heading to the parlor car in a single file and he followed the cats – sure to find Artemus there. Sensing the older man's distress, the felines rarely left his side, offering him headbutts and loud, soothing purrs, he thought.

He found Artemus, wearing a breethcloth and nothing else, not even moccasins, rolled in a ball on a sofa. His partner was wrapped in the coverlet and he was trembling, hollowed out with exhaustion, with dark patches under his eyes. He was absentmindedly petting Marmie sitting beside him. AG and Aztec were perched on top of his legs, purring.

James sat on the sofa in his turn, taking AG in his arms. "Artie, it's time to go to bed," he said, softly. "You need to sleep for a long, long time, or you're going to collapse out of pure exhaustion – and die. And I can't let you die. I love you buddy. You're a brother to me. You're family. You have the choice. You go to bed willingly, or I am going to have to knock out you, your choice."

Blinking blearily, Artemus looked at the younger man, eyes red and puffy with lack of sleep. He didn't have the energy to fight.. "''kay. You win." He murmured. He caressed the cat and he was close to, smiling. "Want my cats with me to sleep."

Dropping Marmalade to the carpeted floor, Jim helped his best friend to stand and at the same time realized that his best friend accepted to be touched now. It was a good thing because it was the beginning of the healing process, he thought. "Marmie and Aztec will stay with you tonight, come on. Bed. Now. No discussion," he ordered.

Leaning heavily against Jim, gripping him, so he wouldn't fall over, Artie felt his legs tremble. He could barely stay upright, he distantly realized. "I'm sorry Jim… so sorry. Didn't… want to hurt you." Tears suddenly flooded his cheeks and he cried, burying his face into the other man's shoulder.

Rubbing soothing circles on Artie's back, Jim smiled. "I know. You're forgiven Artie. Everything's going to be okay, you'll see."

He smiled. Artemus was back – but his smiled faded instantly when he thought that Artie had still a long way to hell before him.

Parting from Jim, Artie nodded. He inhaled sharply. "A long trip to hell awaits me…" He took a breath, ran his hand through his hair, and, with herculean effort, he headed toward the door. He yawned and suddenly crumpled to the floor, passed out with exhaustion.

WWW

 _The next afternoon,_

 _Former Comanche settlement_

Strong Bear swallowed hard, his lower lip trembling with raw emotion. He couldn't count how many graves filled the vast mesa. Far too many, he distantly thought.

He sank to his knees on the deep grass, whimpering in distress. It was as if his body lost all its strength, remembering it not yellow-green but red with blood.

Red with his friends' blood.

He started crying. "It's too much," he breathed. "I can't…,' he said with a shaky voice.

He knew that all his friends were dead – had seen a lot of them being killed before his eyes – but as horrible as they were, they were images. They were not tangible. Rocks piled on top of dead decaying bodies, the decaying bodies of his friends, there, in front of him, all around him… were tangible.

It was atrocious.

He whimpered remembering Little Willow and Red leaf playing with him a few hours before the attack… They had both been playing with him at 'big hungry bear (he, wearing a bear skin) which wanted to eat little girls' (them)). They had climbed on his back, armed with wooden knives, and they had stabbed him, trying to kill the beast. He was roaring angrily and they were laughing.

He stumbled among all the graves covering the mesa, searching for smaller ones. He found many of them – all the children had been slaughtered. "Oh God…" he let out, nauseous and dizzy. The world was spinning, and his chest felt tight and he couldn't breathe. Panting, he swayed on his feet then he dropped down to his knees, just mere inches away from the base of a child's grave and touched a stone covered with dried blood… He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and a cry tore from it, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!" Then, resting his head against that stone, he said, his voice hoarse, "You're dead, gone… my precious little girls… I miss you so much. God! It's too much… it's too much."

He wept, letting out heart-wrenched sobs that wracked his entire body, while breathing hard, choking on his own tears.

He closed his eyes, feeling burning anger rise, making its way up his throat. He watched his hands tremble irrepressibly. Pure, undiluted anger flashed across his face. "I'm going to kill them all!" he growled, standing, pulling his knife out of his belt. He pivoted and found himself face to face with Silver Cloud. "I'm going to kill them all!" he repeated to his friend, breathing heavily. "Bring me my horse!"

Silver Cloud shook his head. "No you won't. It won't bring them back. I know, I wanted to kill white people for retaliation, but I was wrong. There's been too much bloodshed already. And I was so blinded by anger and by the desire to avenge my people that I forgot that a true warrior fights his enemies, not takes revenge on innocent people. This is not the behavior of a Comanche. "

Frowning, upset, Artie took a step back, so exhausted that he nearly lost his feet. "They killed them all! All of them!" His voice cracked, his eyes going blurry. "They were just murdered. Slaughtered. The children too…" His stomach twisted. "Dear God…"

Silver Cloud joined Artie and placed a hand on the other man's hand gripping the knife. "It wasn't easy, but I mourned while coming here, and moved on. You have to do the same."

Dropping his armed hand, his shoulders slumped, ashamed, Artemus let out a strangled sob. "I should have stopped more of them. I didn't fight hard enough, because I wasn't good enough…I promised Yellow Arrow to protect the children and I failed... I wasn't ready to fight."

Silver Cloud grabbed Artemus's shoulders. "Look at me."

Strong Bear raised his head reluctantly, looking at the Comanche's eyes.

Silver Cloud said, "It was not your fault. They attacked in a middle of the night without warning. No one was ready to fight. You, me, all the other warriors. You did your best, Strong Bear. There would have been more dead people without your intervention. You saved Red Fox for example by killing the man who was going to slit his throat. You were very brave, Strong Bear. You didn't fail them."

Pivoting Artie motioned to the graves. "I tried to save the children… They were so scared… They were all around me… I was alone and there were dozens of white people…" New tears wetted his face. "I still can hear the children shout with fear, with terror…" He placed his hands over his ears and closed his eyes shut and sobbed. He re-opened them a few seconds later, "It hurts, it hurts so much" He whispered.

Silver Cloud nodded. "I know."

Glancing around him at the mesa-turned-cemetery, he said, "I need to be alone. I have to… I need to talk to them, to all of them." Then he headed toward a group of graves.

Silver Cloud nodded and joined Jim who was standing next to the horses. Frowning in concern, Jim asked, "How is he?"

The Comanche looked at Strong Bear with compassion. "He has started mourning. But it's going to be a long and hard road."

Jim nodded. "Yes, you're right. The trauma , both physical and emotional will leave scars, some of which will take a very long time to heal."

The two men looked up at the darkening sky at the first rumble of thunder. Then they looked at Artemus moving between the graves, stopping beside each one for a few seconds, head bowed, shoulders hunched, talking to the dead.

He stayed longer next to the small graves, a living picture of misery, sitting on the grass, his knees to his chest and his arms folded around his shins. Talking to the dead children.

Pointing at a group of large rocks, Silver Cloud said, "Let's go there to shelter us from the rain," as thunder boomed overhead. The lightning flashed.

Once sheltered in a small opening, Jim and Silver Cloud watched Artie move fromone grave to another. It started pouring down.

They observed Artemus again – watching him pick up something in the waterlogged grass. But they were too far to see what it was.

Knitting his eyebrows together, very worried Jim said, "He shouldn't stay exposed like this. It's very dangerous. He could be struck by a ball of lightning."

Silver Cloud shook his head. "Don't worry. He's safe. The Big Father protects him. Besides, he needs to mourn and it's going to take quite some time. He'll come back when he's ready." He sat cross legged on the ground. "We just have to wait now."

Nodding, Jim reached out, drops of rain pelting on his hand. "It never rains here… Thunderstorms seem to follow Artemus…" He trailed off, the loud roar of thunder echoing on the vast mesa.

Silver Cloud nodded. "Akbaatatdia is still angry at what happened here and it is crying, crying all his dead children, and Strong Bear, like me, is one of them, but the Big Father has marked Strong Bear as its favorite, and it wants to share its grief with him. That's why thunderstorms are Strong Bear's companions," he explained.

Or the weather was very bad where Artemus is located, Jim thought. And that was the case. Intrigued by those thunderstorms overhead he had sent a telegram to the Federal Weather Service and there were thunderstorms covering the whole country.

Not wanting to rumble Silver Cloud with a more scientific explanation than his Jim sat on the ground beside Silver Cloud and said, "Then, when Artie stops grieving, the thunderstorms will disappear?"

Silver Cloud nodded, "Yes."

WWW

 _Much later_

Standing on a rock dominating the grave-covered mesa, drenched, cold and miserable, Artemus pulled out his knife from his belt and Comanche way, he slashed his arms to express his grief.

Finally, he joined the others, shoulders sagging, holding a beaded necklace. "They're gone to a better world. And I have to live with that." He heaved a breath. "Let's go home, now," he said.

Jim shook his head. "Not yet buddy, I need to take care of those cuts on your arms before that." And the opened his left saddlebag, pulling out a medical kit.

Silver Cloud placed a hand on Strong Bear's shoulder. "I'm very proud of you," he said – and saw the other man smile, weakly.

Then Artemus put the necklace he had found on the ground around his neck. He touched the colored beads reverently. "It belonged to Little Willow," he said. He swallowed. "I am always going to keep it around my neck, I'll never remove it."

WWW

 _Much later on the Wanderer_

First things first, once on board the Wanderer Jim led Artemus toward the bathroom and pointed at a stool. "Strip," he commanded.

Blinking slowly, blank-faced, Artemus was too exhausted to do anything else than follow orders. He swayed in place and somehow managed to take his still damp breechcloth off.

Once Artemus was naked with only the beaded necklace around his neck, Jim said, "Sit down, Artie, before you fall down."

Scrubbing his hand wearily over his stubbled face, Artemus sagged back against the wooden wall of the small bathroom and limply slumped onto the stool. Hunched over with his elbows on his thighs and his head hanging down, he stared vacantly at his bare feet covered with dirt and mud.

"I want to sleep," he said, flatly.

Looking at his best friend, Jim said, "I know, but you're dirty and you stink buddy. I'm not going to let you go to bed in that state."

Thanks to an ingenious system of pipes connected to the water from the locomotive's boiler (Artie's invention), Jim could fill the bathtub with hot water in a matter of minutes. Then, as the water was far too hot, he opened another valve and cold water flowed directly from the water reservoir of the tender.

He mixed it all with his hand and once satisfied by the heat of the water, he turned toward his... dozing partner, slumped against the wooden wall.

He pulled Artemus upright, eliciting a disgruntled groan from the totally exhausted other man and helped him to get into the bathtub.

Sitting in the bathtub Artie looked at his bandaged arms and suddenly said, "'To weep is to make less the depth of grief.'― William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part 3."

Jim leaned down and pressed his shoulder with affection. "Go ahead, you can cry buddy, it's okay," he said seeing Artie's lip wobbling.

A sob escaped Artie.

Hiding his face in his hands, he burst out crying as Jim moved his hand to the back of his best friend's head and bringing him in close. He wrapped an arm around Jim, holding him tightly as he buried his face in his shoulder, and he cried, and cried and cried until he had no tears, finally allowing himself to let his grief come out and allow him to start mourning.

Then, regaining control of himself, Artemus moved back, parting from Jim and said, "I'm okay. It's over, now," and closed his bloodshot eyes. He breathed in and out, deeply, and then opened them again and nodded. "I'm going to be fine." He looked up at Jim, dazed by exhaustion. "I'm going to be fine," he repeated, craving for sleep.

Smiling, reassured, Jim reached for the bottle of shampoo sat on a shelf and squirted some into his hand. "I'm really happy to hear that, Artie."

But it was too early to say 'welcome back'. Artemus had made a big step toward the man he was before that combination of dramatic events – but He still had got a long way to go, Jim thought guessing that it wouldn't be a walk in the park.

But it was going to be okay. Eventually.

Hearing the thunder growl outside, he knew that Artemus was still grieving and he would grieve for a while, he thought.

Grunting Artemus found that couldn't lift his arms over his head, as weak as a newborn kitten. "Jim, could you…?" he trailed off, and said, "thanks," when he felt Jim gently begin to massage the shampoo into his hair. He closed his eyes.

He drifted off to sleep.

WWW

 _Later_

It was almost dark inside the compartment when Artemus who was practically sleepwalking stumbled to his bed, eyes half-closed.

He was still naked but was clean and smelled of soap and shampoo.

He fell heavily and limply on his bunk, one arm and on leg dangling over the side and was out like a light before his head hit the pillow.

Smiling, Jim arranged his partner's arms and legs in a more comfortable position, and then covered him with a blanket.

Silver Cloud entered the room and looked down at the older man, dead to the world. "The thunderstorm is still above us," he stated.

Jim nodded. "I know. He has started grieving… but he's not ready to move on, yet. It's going to take some time," he said.

Marmalade, AG and Aztec jumped on the bed and rolled in a ball on Artie's lap.

Artemus slept for thirty-six hours straight.

Tbc


	5. Act Four

**THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT FOUR**

 _The Wanderer, on route to Washington D.C._

Smiling Jim placed a tray with Artie's breakfast on the large table in the lab. "I prepared not-so-burnt pancakes and toast for you, Artie," he said proudly.

But Artemus ignored him – engrossed in filling a sketchbook with schematics of his latest invention: a deadly weapon: a grenade launcher much bigger and sophisticated that the one he had used once on Devil's Island to neutralize the guards.

He sat on a stool beside Artie and stared at his partner's hand, fascinated by the precision of his drawings, and also by the speed at which he realized them.

Suddenly the loud crack of thunder made Jim jump but Artemus didn't notice. A flash of light, illuminated everything including the two men with a blinding white in the lab.

Still observing Artemus now adding technical comments and notes to his drawings, Jim started to muse: since Silver Cloud was gone, heading back to the reservation escorted by two soldiers Artemus had confined himself to his laboratory, spending all his time there, working on his projects.

He spent his days and his nights here – sleeping on a bunk, eating and drinking what Jim brought him, without a single word.

He was quiet and withdrawn – totally un-Artie.

Unable to help his partner, he was very frustrated. He had tried everything to bring his best friend out of his shell, bringing him his violin, but Artie hadn't touched it, stopping the train on route in a dozen cities along the way to Washington to buy fresh food so he could cook, but Artie didn't want to go to the galley, so he had resigned himself to cooking. Nothing had worked. He didn't want to play violin, he didn't want to cook – only one thing interested him, his inventions."

He stopped his musing to glance at the cats, lying sphinx-style in their basket, looking sad. Even Marmalade and Aztec felt abandoned.

He didn't pay attention to them anymore.

Sighing, Jim was ready to leave when he saw Artemus absentmindedly reaching out to take a cup of coffee with his free hand, while annotating his sketches.

The older man took a sip and grimaced instantly, the extra-thick-and bitter coffee burning his tongue and throat and scalding his stomach. "Gaaaah!" he let out. "Are you trying to kill me, Jim?" He settled the cup on the table, in front of him then pushed it toward his best friend, glaring at him. "James m' boy, your coffee is just abominable."

Jim was flabbergasted, eyes wide open and mouth hanging agape.

Heavy rain drops pelted the windows. There was another flash of blinding lightning that made the lab vanish in whiteness for a split second and another reverberating clap of thunder, louder.

Oblivious to the thunderstorm Artemus was very surprised by his best friend's reaction, puzzled, he frowned and asked, "What? It's not the first time I've told you – unfortunately… what?"

Still dumbfounded Jim croaked, "You never touched my coffee in a week… and I prepared you dozens of cups and you never took a sip…"

Artie smirked. "Because that thing is not what I call coffee. It's close to grease. I'm sure we could use it to grease the train brakes… " He frowned seeing his partner looking at him starry-eyed and open mouthed. "Jim? What is it?... I'm starting to worry, buddy…"

Beaming with pleasure, Jim moved toward the other man and hugged him for a few seconds. Then he parted, tears of deep, intense joy escaping from his eyes and said, "You're back!"

Confused Artemus frowned. "I'm back? What do you mean I'm back? Back from where? Where did I go? What's happening Jim?"

Placing a hand on Artie's shoulder Jim explained, "I mean you're back to your old self, Artemus Gordon. You have confined yourself here, in your lab, quiet and withdrawn since Silver Cloud left, a week ago for the Comanche reservation. You were obsessed by that invention of yours, totally oblivious to the world around you. I brought you food and water, but you didn't even register my presence. It was like I was invisible. You were 'absent'." He frowned in concern. "Are you alright Artie?"

Blinking Artemus nodded. "Yes I am… I think." He rubbed his temple. "I remember saying goodbye to Silver Cloud on the train platform, promising him to come to the reservation as soon as I have the opportunity… and… and nothing else until I tasted your abominable coffee."

As another clash of thunder was heard, Jim, now very worried asked, "You forgot a complete week? How is that possible?"

Shaking his head Artie shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm sure there's an explanation. He tapped his head for emphasis. "But how the brains works is still little known." Then he chuckled. "I think that your awful coffee brought me back from… from that _long moment of absence_ … I shouldn't be surprised if he could bring dead people to life too…" He sat on a stool. "I may have an explanation. I suppose I needed a pause after what I lived… my brain almost shut down and focused on that invention… " He rapidly surveyed his schematics and was amazed. "That's great! That's amazing! Hmm… I'm a genius!" He looked at Jim again and continued, "My brain did that, blocking any other thoughts. I did the rest, meaning my basic needs, eating, drinking, sleeping, without thinking, automatically… I really want to write something on the reflexes in humans…" He let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry if I had you worried, Jim. It wasn't my intention."

Patting Artie's arm reassuringly Jim smiled. "I know buddy, I know." His smile broadened when he saw Artie take Marmalade in his arms. The white and orange cat immediately rubbed its face against its master's neck, purring loudly, happily. "What about preparing some decent coffee?"

Surveying the breakfast Jim had prepared he nodded, "Good coffee and a good breakfast. I can't eat that. What's that green thing?"

He cringed. "I tried to make green tomato jam… and failed, but I did my best! I wanted to please you Artie, I know you love it."

Pressing Jim's shoulder soothingly Artie chuckled. "Thank you. I really appreciate all your culinary attempts, Jim, but unlike me you're better with a revolver than a spatula." He kissed the top of Aztec's head after the young cat had leaped on his lap. "Hello big girl," he said.

Purrrrrr.

Beaming again, Jim thought, 'He's back this time, definitively.' "But you could kill a man with a spatula, Artie, I'm sure."

Feeling his stubble itch, Artie ran a hand over his cheeks. "it would seem that shaving wasn't one of my basics needs…"

Smiling Jim wrinkled his nose. "Bathing either."

Another lightning strike lighted up the whole lab through the windows and the thunder boomed again, louder. It was now pouring down.

His smile vanishing from his lips, Jim thought, 'He's back, yes, but he's still grieving, as the Great Spirit is still crying to share his grief with Strong Bear.'

WWW

 _The next afternoon, Washington D.C._

 _The Wanderer_

Two bulky orderlies dressed in white framed Artemus Gordon, their large hands fell on his not-broad-any-longer shoulders, holding him.

Resigned to what would happen next, Artie held out his hands before a third orderly manacled his wrists. Two policemen were there too – guns in hands, aimed at James West.

Furious, Jim glared at Stephen Henderson and said, "You're making a mistake, Doctor. Artie's fine. He's back to his old self. It's no use taking him there."

Dr. Henderson nodded. "Dr. Masterson, Director of the Saint Martin's mental asylum, and excellent alienist, will be the judge of that. He'll do a complete evaluation of Artemus's mental state, and if Artemus is not affected by a mental disorder any more, he'll be released." He looked at Artie who was the living picture of calm and composure and added, "Don't take it personally, Artemus. I have received orders directly from the President. He wants you to be well as soon as possible. He didn't give that order lightly, believe me. He was quite reluctant. You know how much he loves you."

Looking down, Artemus watched the orderly secure his ankles in shackles. "I'm not going to escape, it's not necessary," he said, resigned.

Henderson nodded. "It's standard procedure to secure a…raving and dangerous man, to avoid him hurting others and himself. I'm sorry."

Feeling the two mountain-built-like men firmly grip his arms, Artemus nodded. "I understand Sir. I won't cause any problems." He looked at Jim, smiling reassuringly. "Don't worry Jim, everything's going to be alright. I'll be out in no time."

Jim nodded, a sense of dread creeping under his skin. "Okay, but I'm going with you."

Dr. Henderson shook his head. "You can't. Only medical personnel are allowed in the asylum during the mental evaluation. The patient should not be disturbed, you understand. Dr. Masterson will keep you informed of everything. I'm sorry."

The orderlies moved Artemus toward the door of the parlor car. The policemen re-holstered their guns and followed.

Stephen Henderson repeated, "I'm sorry. I'll keep an eye on him, he added. Then he left the parlor car in his turn, closing the door behind him.

Distressed, Jim took a seat behind the work table and opened the telegraph box. He couldn't leave Artie alone in that mental asylum. He needed help.

He knew that Jeremy Pike and Frank Harper would help him gladly.

WWW

 _Saint Martin's mental asylum_

Once inside the room that patient number 107 would occupy, one of the burly guards moved toward the thick metallic door, hand resting on the a heavy stick at his belt – ready to stop any attempt to escape while the other removed Artemus's manacles and shackles.

Looking around him Artemus surveyed his dimly lit and cold room: there were barren walls, a floor paved with coarse stones, a bed with a not-so-clean mattress, a pillow and a folded blanket placed on it, a stool, a chamber pot, a small table with a couple of candles sitting on it, and a shelf with a folded stack of clothes (a gray uniform, a pair of long-johns and slippers,) and a small barred opening high up on the back wall. The necessary minimum, he thought. His eyes landed on the square foot of window and he stared at the bars. No glass. The torrential rain which drummed hard against the wall entered the room, poured along the wall and had formed a wide puddle at the bed end. A puddle that was increasing in size rapidly. This place felt like a prison not a mental asylum, and his ward was more like a cell, he added in his mind.

Not restrained any more he complied when the large man ordered him to strip naked. He had to be quiet and obedient if he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, so he took his clothes off, calmly, slowly, giving them to the other man.

The burly man crossed his arms over his broad chest and said, "My name is Davis, number 107. I will come here to bring you to the refectory, to the bathroom and to the courtyard." He touched the heavy ring of keys that hung at his belt. "Do something I don't like, like not obeying me, and I will lock you in here for days, that means no food, no water, no bathroom and no promenade." He glanced at his colleague. "And Barnett here will watch you closely, 107."

Naked, cold, Artemus wrapped his arms over his chest, shuddering. "107? No name? Lovely. When can I see Dr. Masterson?" he asked, rubbing his arms.

Reaching out, the guard grabbed Artie's Comanche necklace. "Personal belongings are forbidden!" he said – and pulled, breaking it.

Beads dropped to the floor, rolling everywhere in the cell.

Furious, Artemus reacted instinctively. He hit the other man square in his face, with a single, powerful, punch, with all he had. Davis stumbled back and then, he crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes, nose bloodied and broken. "Don't touch that! It's mine!" He growled almost in a feral way. Then Artie crouched to the floor to pick up the colored beads… not paying attention to the other guard standing next to the door - a man who moved toward him at top speed, holding his baton firmly, raising it to hit, to hurt.

But Artemus finally reacted – he instinctively blocked the heavy stick with his right arm. There was an audible crack and blinding pain erupted in his now broken right wrist and he cried out, his eyes watering. He stood up and sent a vicious punch to Barrett's stomach, who hunched over with a grunt, then he barreled into the guard, knocking him onto the floor, and he brought his left hand up to his neck. The grip tightened, cutting off his air supply. But the hulky guard was stronger and he threw Artemus off and stood up in a flash.

Fatigued, and numbed by the cold, Artie was slower and he was hit again, once on his head and the second time on his forehead. He grunted as he sank to his knees to the floor, seeing stars dancing before his eyes. Then his vision grew cloudy and dark.

Enraged, the guard hit Artemus again, on his back. This time Artie collapsed to the stone floor, howled in pain and everything faded to black.

Grinning, proud of what he had just done having loved it, Barnett took a step back, "Welcome to hell!" he said. Then he kicked Artemus in his groin.

WWW

 _Later_

Holding a bucket of cold water, Barnett, moved toward the special agent of the Secret Service and threw the contents in the other man's face.

Regaining consciousness rather abruptly, Artie immediately grunted and, hissing in pain, he protectively brought his broken wrist to his chest.

He noticed that he was sitting on the cold stone floor in a small dimly lit, bare room. There was no window there.

His left arm was shackled to a wall.

He was wearing a gray uniform and slippers.

He looked at the older man with a receding hairline, and eyeglasses and a doctor's white coat. "Dr. Masterson I suppose? Where am I?" he asked.

Masterson nodded and opened a thick file. "Yes, I'm Richard Masterson and you are in the isolation room. I have here your medical file, 107. A fascinating read. You have collected so to speak all possible serious injuries in your career as a spy for the Union and special agent of the Secret Service. There's no mention of sudden outbursts of violence in it, but with such a profession, it's required I suppose. But you did attack the President and lost control of yourself, affected by a mental disorder…"

Grimacing in pain Artie pulled his knees up to his chest. "It's over now. I'm back to my old self. I don't have any mental disorder anymore. I'm calm…"

Masterson nodded, not convinced and glanced at the hulky man standing beside him. "Calm? You attacked Barnett here; you tried to strangle him…"

Gritting his teeth in anger, Artie couldn't help but give the bulky man a murderous look. "He broke my necklace… It has great value to me. Where is it?"

Barnett sniggered and gave Artie an evil smirk. "I threw it in a garbage pail… oops!"

Keeping his cool this time, but barely, Artemus looked at the doctor. "I'm alright. How can I prove it to you? Tell me."

Masterson looked at the first page of the file, then down at Artie. "You and I will have a long conversation so I can make a full mental analysis. You will stay here, 107, in this institution until I establish your mental stability. We'll see each other the day after tomorrow, not before. I'm very busy, and my other cases are more urgent. You're going to stay here, in this cell, until Saturday, until we see each other again, as punishment for assaulting a guard. Discipline is very strict in this asylum, as you will learn at your expense if you continue to be violent." He closed the file. "Understood?"

Feeling suddenly like a prisoner and not a patient anymore, Artemus asked, "Yes. I'd like to talk to my partner James West, doctor, please. I know that only asylum personnel are allowed in during the mental evaluation of a patient, but as you're not going to make my mental evaluation before…"

The alienist shook his head, interrupting Artemus. "You won't see him 107. You won't see anyone. It's another punishment following what you did If you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. Good night." He headed toward the barred door, leaving the room.

Barnett looked at Artemus like a tiger its prey. "So you were a spy for the Union… and I a soldier of the Confederation…" Taking his metallic stick he used it to firmly tilt Artie's chin up. "The slightest incident, Union spy, and I'll break your legs. Don't forget it!"

Looking at his broken wrist Artie said, "I need to see a physician! My wrist is broken…" and he screamed when the large orderly hit it viciously with his stick.

The guard chuckled. "You can scream all you want, 107, no one is going to come here to help you." He kicked Artie's side and headed toward the door in his turn.

He blew out the two lamps hanging on the wall in the corridor, plunging the cell into complete darkness and locked the heavy door.

Once alone, in the darkness Artie buried his face in his free hand as he let out shaky, sobbing breaths. "Jim, help me, please," he said, his voice cracking.

WWW

 _The next morning_

Looking at his bowl of… something gray he couldn't identify, Artie smiled and said, "Lovely breakfast. I wouldn't give that to a rat. It would poison it."

Suddenly Barnett grabbed the bowl and poured its half-liquid contents on his white jacket. "You just did what you shouldn't have, Union spy…" Gripping the collar of Artemus's jacket, he brutally pinned the other man against the wall and Artie grunted. "So you don't like the food, eh, 107?" He punched Artemus in his stomach and then hit his broken wrist with his stick.

Immediately Artie screamed in pain, fighting against unconsciousness.

Barnett was ready to use his stick again, on Artie's head this time when he heard someone open the metallic door and he froze.

He kicked Artie in his gentleman parts, eliciting a high pitched sound from 107 and pivoted… facing Dr. Masterson. "He threw his bowl of porridge at me and hit me, Sir, he needed to be punished," he lied and justified his gesture.

Masterson nodded and looked down at his patient, barely conscious. "There's no need to justify yourself, Barrett. Do what it is necessary to subdue him."

Barrett looked down at 107, now passed out – with a cold, dangerous smile. "You can count on me, Doctor. I will," he said.

Dr. Masterson nodded, "I wanted to see how he was doing… Being locked up here in isolation, in the dark and shackled didn't teach him a lesson, fine. Lock him in the Cold Room. He'll remain there as long as necessary, until he understands that he has to stop being violent, before we can talk he and I."

Smiling like a crocodile, Barnett raised his heavy stick. "Let's have some fun!" he said, before hitting Artie's knees with it. Hard. "Wake up, 107!"

WWW

 _In the evening_

Dr. Richard Masterson was reading the file of a newly admitted patient – a woman seemingly possessed by demons, who had killed her husband in a fit of madness in front of members of her family – when a lightning bolt flashed the dimly lit room bright white and the thunder growled.

The alienist was dazzled for a couple of seconds, blinked twice and lifted his eyes when he heard a knock at the door. Come in!" he said, upset at being disturbed.

The door opened two seconds later and an orderly entered, preceding two men dressed in white coats, the taller one holding a black bag.

Masterson frowned. "Yes, what is it Sheffield? I had asked not to be disturbed tonight."

The orderly moved to the side and said, "I'm sorry, Doctor. But these two gentlemen want to talk to you Sir. Dr. Pike and Dr. Harper from the Washington Military Hospital. Dr. Henderson sent them here to see how patient 107 is doing, to make a physical and mental evaluation." He moved toward the Director's writing table and gave him the letter he was holding. "Here's the letter from Dr. Henderson, Sir." Then he moved toward the door, standing there, awaiting instructions.

Frank Harper and Jeremy Pike both wearing soaked long coats, watched the alienist read the forged letter with its fake signature and exchanged a knowing look. Hoping that James West was a good forger. They were ready to take Artemus Gordon out of there, using force if necessary.

Masterson placed the letter on his writing table. "Everything's in order. Sheffield here is going to lead you to the Cold Room, in the dark. 107, I mean Mr. Gordon was violent again this morning and I had no choice but to place him in solitary confinement there. He won't be violent again after his stay there, believe me but passive and subdued. I have some reports to read, so I'll join you later, gentlemen."

Frank was suddenly very afraid and the lump in his throat was growing. He glanced at Jeremy who had blanched hearing that too. "The Cold Room? What it is doctor?"

Masterson took another file. "It's a room where we keep our ice. We lock the patients who are unstable and violent in there We keep them in the Cold Room for a few hours, a few days and sometimes for a week, if it's necessary. It depends of their behavior. It works fine every time. After a stay there, people are so afraid to go back there; they are much more docile and compliant. Oh! And you will find him in poor physical state. He had been beaten pretty roughly by one of my guard after he was aggressive with him." Then, on that, he lowered his eyes to his new file.

Both agents exchanged a very anxious gaze.

WWW

 _Later_

Sheffield opened the heavy metallic door of the Cold Room and gave Jeremy Pike the lantern he was holding. "You'll need this, doctor, he said." He was shivering hard, teeth clattering together. "Dear God! It's really cold in here. Don't stay too long or you'll turn to ice …" Then he stuffed his hands in his pockets to try to keep his fingers warm but to no avail. "Hurry!"

The two agents shivered when they felt frigid air wrapped around their bodies as they entered the ice storage room. It was dark inside and they moved forward carefully. "Where is he?"

Frank Harper 's left foot suddenly hit something on the floor and he lowered his eyes. "Jeremy! I think he's on the floor."

Pike lowered the lantern and gasped in shock. "Dear God! It's Artemus!" Copying his partner, he knelt beside an ice-covered Artie, naked and curled up on the frozen floor beside a wall piled with ice blocks. His legs were drawn up against his body, and his arms wrapped around his chest.

Frowning in concern, Frank touched Artemus's throat with already cold-numb fingers, on the pulse point, finding one, very slow and weak. "He's still alive," he said before releasing a sigh of relief.

Jeremy took his coat off and gently wrapped the unconscious man in. "His skin his cold." He noticed the frozen blood on his forehead and his swollen shut left eye. His right cheekbone was busted open and black and blue. His split lips had left a trail of dried blood down his bruised chin. "He's hypothermic and he was severely beaten. He's hurt bad." The concern in their eyes only deepened. "He needs urgent medical attention… and let's hope he'll survive." He gently tapped Artie´s face. "Artemus, can you hear me?" Silence. "Artie! Open your eyes. Come on, wake up!"

But Artemus remained still, unconscious.

Nodding, his teeth chattering, Jeremy pointed at Artie's badly bruised and swollen wrist. "It's broken. We need to get him out of here as soon as possible." He gave the lantern to Frank and pulled Artemus up by his neck and put an arm around him, then he slowly pulled him upright.

Frowning, Sheffield entered the ice-cold room, "Hey! You don't have the right to move him from here. He's in solitary confinement …"

Frank opened his bag and pulled out a gun. "Let's go," he said heading toward the door, Jeremy holding Artie in his arms following him.

Once in the corridor Frank pointed his revolver at Sheffield and said, "Lead the way. We have to leave now. Try anything, like calling for help and you're dead." The orderly nodded. He was no hero. He looked at Artie's face which looked so pale, almost a little blue even. "Let's take him to the hospital!" he said.

Frowning, not sure it was a good idea, Jeremy asked, "Are you sure it's a good idea? Henderson put him in here, buddy he could put him back, later."

The other agent nodded. "I know, but we don't have any other choice. Henderson is the best doctor I know, he'll save Artemus."

WWW

 _Washington Military Hospital_

Dr. Henderson repeated "I'm so sorry", for a third time, as the booms of thunder rattled the window of the white painted room.

He added another hot water bottle on top of the blankets. Half a dozen of them were warming Artemus up. Blankets wrapped around Artemus like a cocoon. He was laying on the bed, unresponsive, his face, pale and still as a stone. His hands and feet, covered with frostbite were wrapped in bandages impregnated with healing ointment.

Still angry at the CMO, Jim said, "He would be dead by now if Jeremy and Frank… (he glanced at them, the two agents standing next to the door, then looked at Henderson again)… hadn't pulled Artie out of that horrible asylum."

Harper added, "More like a prison to me."

Henderson nodded. "From hypothermia, yes, I know. He's going to be alright now. He's resting. His pulse is normal, his breathing too and his temperature is _almost_ normal and it will rise as the hours go by with the help of the heated blankets." He gently took Artie's right arm and inspected the fresh cast. "I couldn't know what would happen… The asylum has a good reputation, Dr. Masterson too…I don't know what happened. But Colonel Richmond has decided to conduct his own investigation. We'll quickly know what's been happening."

Preceded by a cloud of bluish smoke, President Grant entered the room, his face draw, holding a long, fat cigar in his nervous left hand.

Suddenly the four men froze, standing at attention.

Rain lashed against the window.

Moving toward the bed, Grant said, "This is entirely my fault. I'm responsible for what happened to him. I shouldn't have sent him there…" He looked down at Artemus cocooned in blankets and hot water bottles. "I'm so sorry son," he said. "I'm so very sorry," he added, his voice cracking, eyes stinging with tears, taking Artie's left hand in his. He looked up at Henderson standing on the other side of the bed. "How is he?" He repeated it so that he could be heard against the pouring rain and the crashing thunder.

Henderson gave the president a reassuring smile. "His right wrist is broken, he has a nasty bump on his head and a gash on top of his forehead; he had a split lip and a lot of bruising. I had to stitch his split open lip and his forehead. I covered his bruises with American Knife's special ointment and they should vanish rapidly. He probably has a concussion. He's not still out of a severe case of hypothermia, yet but he should be alright. He's solid."

Ulysses S. Grant nodded and rubbed his face quickly before sighing. "He is still alive and that's all what matters. I want him transported to the White House, as soon as possible, Stephen. I don't want him to wake up in a hospital after what he went through. He needs to feel safe."

Henderson nodded. "Yes Sir."

WWW

 _Later, at the White House_

His eyes fluttering open, Artie whispered, his voice rough and raspy, "Beads… beads…my necklace…" with pain in his voice and he thrashed wildly on the bed, tangling himself in the blankets.

He realized that he was lying on his back, somewhere soft. A bed. There was a thunderstorm raging outside, he noticed, the raindrops pelting against the window glass, thunder rumbling deeply in the distance. He suddenly gasped and started when he felt two hands press his shoulders, holding him down, and he heard a soft, feminine voice, say: "Shhh… calm down, everything is going to be alright."

He mustered up enough energy to push the hands away from himself. "No! Get your hands off me! You're not going to take my necklace!" he croaked. Then he curled up in a tight ball in his bed, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his head on them.

He flinched when he felt someone sit next to him, draping and arm over his shaking shoulders. As his vision was blurred with tears, and the room dim, all he could see was the silhouette of the person close to him. He sniffled and asked, "Mom? Is that you mom?"

Julia Grant smiled tenderly. "No, I'm not your mother, but in a sense I am, as my husband has unofficially adopted you…" She said, taking Artie's hand in hers. "I'm Julia Grant. You're in one of the guest rooms at the White House, Artemus. Everything is going to be all right."

Confused, disoriented, Artie didn't realize who was sitting at his bedside. "'Kay." Closing his eyes, too weak to keep them open anymore, Artemus relaxed and uncurled drifting to sleep as he mumbled, "Mom… I want to see my mom…please."

He was fast asleep a split second later, breathing slowly.

The First Lady nodded. "She'll be at your side as soon as possible, I promise." She kissed Artie's clammy brow and stood.

She was ready to blow on the wick of the lantern to extinguish it when she heard the wood flooring crack under the weight of someone's feet.

Moving away from the bed of the Blue Room, Julia Grant turned around and saw her husband standing behind her, his shoulders hunched, face drawn, looking guilty and worried.

The President sighed. "It's my fault. What I did was wrong and he was badly hurt, he almost died." He clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut as hot tears stung his eyes.

She smiled soothingly. "I know what you think, but what happened wasn't your fault, Ulysses. Stop feeling guilty, please." She took his hand in hers, and added, "You thought that sending Artemus to that asylum was the right way to help him. You couldn't know what would happen there. Stephen Henderson had recommended Dr. Masterson to you – and you wanted to help Artemus to feel better, to be fine. You love Artemus like he was your own son, and you would never do him any harm. I know you also worry about that, but Artemus won't be angry with you, he sees you as his surrogate father, Ulysses, and he knows that you would do anything to protect him."

Ulysses S. Grant nodded, feeling a lot better. He took her wife in his arms, kissing her cheek tenderly, lovingly and said, "Thank you my dear, your words are always full of wisdom, and precious to me, and I don't know what I would do without you. I'm very fortunate to have you at my side, as wife and counsellor."

Julia kissed Ulysses's lips briefly then said, "Artemus needs his mother, Ulysses. Could you send someone to fetch her?"

Grant nodded. "I will send Mr. Pike and Mr. Harper to Green Hill. They should be here with Mrs. Gordon by tomorrow night."

Julia Grant smiled. "Thank you."

WWW

 _The next evening,_

 _White House,_

 _In the corridor leading to the guest rooms_

Glancing at Artemus, sound asleep in his bed, his pale face highlighting the bruises, his features contorted in pain even in his sleep, Jim took a sip of coffee and said, "I hope he's going to be okay." His hands were twitching and more tears threatened to fall from his raw eyes.

But he knew that his best friend's physical and mental recovery would be long – and difficult. He sighed, feeling totally helpless. "I'd like to help him…" he said, feeling helpless, his shoulders sagging.

Frank Harper swallowed a mouthful of coffee too. "You did everything possible to help him, Jim. You saved his life. His mother is here. She's going to take good care of him." he smiled trying to relax his friend. "She's an old, petite woman, but she's strong-willed and full of energy, and she never stopped talking or almost since we left Green Hill. She told Jeremy and me a lot of things about Artemus when he was a boy and then when he was a teenager… He hasn't changed that much since that time. He's older, but he's still the same Artemus Gordon we all know, honest, righteous, loyal, brave, kind, generous, always willing to help others without asking anything in return…"

Running a fingertip around the rim of his empty coffee cup, pensively, Jeremy pike said, "He's a good man, and didn't deserve what happened to him. He went through hell… "

WWW

 _In the Blue Room_

Sitting up in bed, Artemus leant heavily against the headrest, groaning. His white pajamas were crumpled, his hair in disarray and his face stubbled. A mother of all headaches was splitting his skull in two parts and he blinked, trying to clear his hazy vision.

Feeling a hand press his shoulder, he turned his pounding head to the side, a bit too rapidly, and regretted it immediately, dizziness sweeping over him. "Oh boy..." he murmured, swallowing frantically the bile rising in his throat.

Artemus dropped his head into his hands. "Jim? That you?" He slurred, and then grunted. Talking made his head hurt even worse.

Helena Gordon, sat on the edge of the bed and reaching out she tucked a strand of hair behind her son's ear, letting his fingers linger on his stubbled cheek. Then she took her son's hand in hers. "No, Artemus, it's me, Helena, it's your mother."

Blinking, his brain foggy, Arte breathed out, "Mom? What are you doing here?" He glanced around him with bloodshot eyes. "Where am I?"

He was startled and jumped when a flash of blue-white light lit up the room and thunder rolled in but it seemed to be dying down…

Helena kissed her son's brow. "Shhh… Everything's going to be alright my boy. Harry and I are going to take care of you." She looked up at Dr. Henderson standing at the end of the bed, looking ill at ease and said, "I want to take my boy back to Green Hill as soon as possible. When will he be able to travel?"

Dr. Henderson sighed. "Not anytime soon, Mrs. Gordon, I'm afraid. Your son has a concussion, he can't move without being sick. You'll have to wait – a week perhaps. I'm sorry."

She looked at her son again. Artemus was very pale, greenish and he was sweating profusely. "Lie back down, my boy, or you're going to be sick."

Reaching out, Artemus clutched his mother's arm, tears rolling down his face. "Mom… something atrocious happened with my friends the Comanche… God _, it hurts so much_ ," he rasped.

Helena pulled her son into her arms, tightly. "Shh… I know. Jim told me everything." She ran her other hand over Artemus's forehead, brushing back the damp curls. "I'm going to take you back home and once there, you'll be fine."

Suddenly Artemus's stomach heaved, his grip loosening. He rolled to the opposite side of the bed, away from his mother and he vomited on the floor, then curling against Helena, he wept like a child.

Helena Gordon sighed, "Maybe not fine, but better," she admitted. She raised a commanding finger before Henderson could open his mouth to object. "I'm leaving with my son," she said. Have a coach ready in five minutes. We'll travel in the Wanderer as far as Galena, it's comfortable and Jim and I will take care of him, and then Harry will carry Artemus to Green Hill in the buckboard, and we'll take care of Artemus together. No discussion! At all!"

Henderson nodded. "Yes Ma'am."

Tbc.


	6. Tag

**THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **TAG**

 _A week later_

 _Smallpox Creek, not far from Galena, Illinois_

It was approaching sunset when James West finally reached the point of the creek. He folded the map Harry had given to him and put it in the pocket of his warm coat.

He zigzagged between high, dark trees, climbed a series of black rocks, crossed patches of long grass and finally reached the end of the secluded rocky headland.

He joined the solitary man (no more) leaning against a dead tree trunk, there. Artemus was sitting cross-legged by the campfire on a folded blanket, looking thoughtfully at the flames.

He dropped his bedroll between the camp fire and the small tent and said, "Next time you decide to 'meditate' do it in a more accessible place, Artie, please, and in summer, not in winter. Without Harry's map, I would have got lost. I had to leave my horse at a small farm – where he met yours, by the way - two hours ago. I traveled the entire route up to here by foot." He dropped his backpack at his feet and took a couple of steps forward, to the same level as his companion and looked around him, enjoying the view and the soft, soothing sound of the Mississippi river. "It's beautiful, and so peaceful. I know why you like this place." He shivered, blowing on his hands.

The night would be cold, but the fire was warm, he thought.

Looking up at Jim, Artemus Gordon said, "Yes it is. It's a perfect place to meditate, _alone_." And his voice gaining a harsher tone, he added, "Go back to my mom's home, I'll join you later."

Jim shook his head. "No, I'm staying. I promised Helena to take care of you, and I'm going to do it, whether you want it or not." He moved toward his best friend – ignoring his black look aimed at him - and plopped down next to him, before sitting cross-legged and he noticed a pile of dry branches and twigs piled next to his best friend. "I know why you chose to come here, Artie, with your tent, backpack, bedroll and blankets. It's secluded and it's cold outside... nobody's going to come here to bother you."

Giving Jim a sidelong glance Artie said, "Except you."

Smiling Jim nodded. "Yes, except me. We're best friends, blood brothers even, and as such I can't bother you, buddy." Pause. "I missed you, Artie; I don't like to be alone, without you at my side." He opened his backpack and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two mugs. "I asked Colonel Richmond for a short leave and he granted it. I came here to see how you're doing."

No response. Artemus huddled in his warm checked blanket continued to stare at the orange-and-yellow fire with dazed and fatigue-fogged eyes.

Moving on, Jim twisted the cap off of the bottle and poured the liquor into the two mugs, up to the brim. "It feels like we're the only two people for miles," he said, listening to the wood pop and the crackle in the flames. "How are you Artie?" he asked.

His only response was given by the crackling of the campfire sending glowing bits of ash and smoke adrift into the air.

Still no response.

It was twilight now and the clear, bright red-orange sky had turned deep violet in the setting light of the sun, stars showing and sparkling.

Lit by firelight, Jim reached out, offering one mug to Artemus. "It's a present from Frank and Jeremy." Artemus didn't move, still staring in front of him at the glittering water. "It's the best whisky they could find in Washington… and, with this chilly air, we need it." He placed the mug on the ground and then fished around in the pockets of his warm jacket, taking out two long, thick, cigars and a small pocket knife. "Maybe a cigar?... It's a present from the President. He knows that you like his abominable cigars…" He opened the small knife and clipped the end of the cigars off. "Here's yours buddy," he said as he offered one to Artie, who couldn't help but take it. He smiled broadly. "Ah! I knew that you couldn't resist."

Artemus lit a twig in the fire and finally responded, his voice flat, "I'm healing, slowly." he said. "I'm holding up. One day at a time." Then he lit his long, fat cigar.

A Pause.

Jim imitated his best friend. "Do you sleep?"

There was a new pause.

The sun had now vanished behind the trees on the opposite shore. Stars were beginning to appear in the clear darkening sky.

Finally Artie nodded and said, "Yes. The nightmares are less frequent now…" He took a series of short draws, kept the smoke in his mouth for a moment, then blew it out, slowly. "That's strong, just like the way I like it," he added.

Jim took a long drag of his cigar, and puffed out a breath of smoke watching it slowly curl thickly into the air. He nodded, "Me too."

Shoulders hunched, the older man lowered his cigar and stared down at his drink, swishing it around a bit, lost in his thoughts, again. Then he downed his whiskey in three long gulps, the liquor burning his throat, a feeling of warmth spreading to his chest. "You will have to learn to live without me, Jim. I'm sure Colonel Richmond will find you a new partner, probably Frank or Jeremy, or both alternately," he announced.

Staring wide-eyed at Artemus, Jim removed his cigar from his mouth hung open in total surprise before he it dropped it to the ground. Then he felt his throat constrict in alarm. He rasped, "What?"

The fire casting a shadow on his strained features, Artie exhaled a long sigh and explained, "I can't do this anymore… being Artemus Gordon the Special Agent of the Secret Service… I'm leaving you. I'm taking a sabbatical and in a week I will embark as a cook on the merchant ship _SS Washington_ to sail to England, then to France, and to Spain, to Italy then we'll head back home. I sent a telegram to the President yesterday morning telling him what I was going to do, no what I _needed to do_ , and he granted me permission. After what happened… " He swallowed and stopped, tears prickling at his eyes, still grieving and mourning. He blew out a steadying breath, and his eyes reddened, he added, "I need some time away; I need a pause – a long one, I need to be away from here, to heal, to find myself, to be myself again…I'll get better with time." He mopped his wet cheeks with the back of his hand.

Immediately Jim looked at the starry night sky – no thunderstorm at the horizon. The Federal Weather Service had forecast beautiful but cold days for at least a week.

But it could be possible too that the Great Spirit had finally ceased to cry over his lost people, like Artie had – well, more or less, he thought.

Understanding and sympathizing with Artie's desire to take some time off to recover and be the man he was before those tragic events, Jim nodded. "Okay. I will wait for you Artie." He stretched his legs out in front of him toward the fire and leaned back against the dead tree trunk. He let out a long sigh of relief. "For a brief moment I thought you were going to tell me that you had resigned."

Artie gave Jim a small smile. "I wanted to resign but my mom said a big, strong and firm NO, telling me that the country needed me… and that you needed me, Jim. "Brothers can part ways, for a while, but they need to be together to be happy," she said. You remember that she unofficially adopted you, right? It's her who suggested I take a sabbatical, serving on board a ship… but in the galley, she specified and not in the mast, as I'm not 20 anymore. She knows that I like that kind of life… " He sighed, ill at ease. "I didn't know how to tell you that… I wrote letters but crumpled them up."

Jim brought the rim of the mug to his lips, taking a sip of the whiskey and he smirked. "And you came here to meditate to find a way and tried to chase me away to have more time to find how to tell me that?"... He took a big puff of his cigar and released the smoke. "You're getting old Artie. I thought you had a way with words."

Blinking, Artie was surprised by Jim's reaction. "You're not mad at me?"

The younger man shook his head. "No, of course not. You're not abandoning me, you're just taking a long vacation, I'll survive - barely. More seriously, I know what you went through Artie, and that you need time and space to heal." He let out a chuckle and continued, "But I am afraid that the sailors won't let you leave after they have tasted your cooking. They could keep you shackled on board."

Artie smiled. "Then you'll come to rescue me, I'm sure."

Pouring another swig of whiskey in Artemus's mug, Jim said, "Of course I will." He smiled. Then he took another sip of liquor.

Cigar stuck in his mouth, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, Artemus reached down, gathering a few branches of driftwood before tossing them into the crackling firewood.

He pulled his blanket tighter around him. "I will miss you, Jim," he said.

Scooting closer to the other man Jim said, "I'm going to miss you too buddy, but I understand why you have to leave. I'll watch out that my new partner doesn't touch your stuff. He will have to camp in the Wanderer, and not settle down there."

Tears welling up to his eyes, Artie placed a warm hand on Jim's shoulder, "Thank you. It goes straight to my heart."

Smiling, Jim opened his backpack and pulled out a heavy bag he handed out to his best friend – and then he took out a red and white tablecloth. "I'm hungry," was all he said.

Curious, Artemus opened the bag and fished out a two plates, a kitchen knife, a big roast chicken inside, a bowl covered with a lid containing potato salad, then a jar of pickles and finally a szarlotka wrapped in a napkin, his mom's Polish apple pie.

Seeing that Artie was surprised, Jim explained, "Your mom prepared a picnic for us. She wants you to eat and gain weight, and muscles."

Taking the plates, Artie settled them beside him and placed the cold chicken onto one. "I'm eating," he said. He grabbed the kitchen knife and began cutting and detaching pieces of meat. "Since I came back home, my mom made sure of that. She has started fattening me like a Thanksgiving Turkey." He chuckled. "You can't starve with my mom… everything she prepares is delicious, and you can't resist it."

Spreading the tablecloth over the rocky ground, Jim nodded. "I know. I put on weight too each time I come to the Gordon family home."

Staring at the now dark Mississippi river flowing its way in front of him, then looking up at the star-speckled sky, Artemus said, "Speaking of home… I'll come back. I promise."

Smiling too Jim tossed a bunch of branches on the campfire sending a shower of sparks rising into the air, the warmth enveloping them. "I know, Artie," he said.

They ate in companionable silence, with nothing but the crackling branches and twigs of the fire and the gentle sound of the river as their companions.

Then, exhausted Artie retreated to his tent, big enough for two, so he invited his partner to join him.

Lying side by side on their bedroll spread out on the ground, huddled under the blanket in front of the fire strong enough to keep them warm, the two men closed their eyes, letting the crackling of wood and warmth lull them to sleep.

The end


End file.
